If words are air in passing
or black marks on the white,
and voices trace the chance of singing,
then could a speech bring light?
Could you teach me how
to speak?
Chatting up and talking down,
there’s not an end to words.
But how to find the purity
of the singing of the birds?
What’s a mouth without
an ear?
But hear the sounds of hissing,
pass on sentences of lies;
see the accuser posing
in some loosely-fit disguise.
Hot air rises; cool
descends.
See the faces melt together,
see them hide behind their hands,
and dress them in a certain hope
that none quite understands.
Thunder follows the
lightning.
No comments:
Post a Comment