Like a windmill, time
turns,
with the sky on
his back, a million
steps to tread
off a long-beaten
track, walking back
and forth
as a moon comes to
pass, calling
to all of the day.
He tells me of
sparkling nights
again,
in the ‘forever’,
that is held in a
palm,
and I have no desire
to ever go home,
to the places
I feel less warm.
Tonight, I stand,
indefinitely torn,
by want,
and by duty, all the
same.
So I climb up the
ivory tower,
all the way,
and I hold out my hand
at the top.
He lays no rose by the
door at all,
and he does not knock;
but I open the windows
and I let
in the birds – and singing,
they say every
thing I have heard
in words,
- - sometimes
countless more besides –
but they do not have
the strength
left to turn
this ever-rolling
tide.
No comments:
Post a Comment