Mountains on and on
filtered by dust
smoke and clouds
letters come on like poems
and music a muffle
to the cymbals of all
the crowds
the stares the stones
Time fairly flies
we snatch at it
stealing hems and leftovers
These rivers
must always be forded
there is no bridge
and crossing leaves us
soaked dark and exhausted
mar 31, 2011
No comments:
Post a Comment