The poets have grown mute,
listless.
They have ashes in their
mouths.
Their eyes are shut.
They have forgotten the
words to the old songs.
I sit beside a green
pond.
The water is cloudy.
It is snowing somewhere but
not here.
I’m often awakened by dreams
in the night,
by shadows
that have not yet learned
how to speak.
A mother calls out to her
child
from an opened window
but he does not hear her
voice.
The world is big and vast.
I scribble these notes in
the air
and a cold wind carries them
away.
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