How many unsung cries
have poisoned days
before they even
reach the night?
Dearest one,
gift your tired tale
to the forbearing winds.
Let your tears fall
so they can rise up
into a cloud.
Mother Earth,
can you still hear
what penetrates the
moonless,
star-starved nights?
An answer arises
in a leaf waving
goodbye,
but also hello,
to concepts of
living and dying.
Or in the subtle slinking
of the lunar-laced tides
appearing to come
only to go.
Dearest friend,
tip over your whistling,
worn-out kettle.
Thoughts ruled by
loneliness
are layered with fiction,
like rooms of darkness
to the mind of a child.
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