Monday, September 29, 2008

the old sails sing their song.

In days long gone I was someone else.
We spent our days always together.
She taught me a rhyme, but it had no tune;
I forget what once it meant.

She gave me a doll, but it had no name.
She built us a town, but it had no bridge.
She made a doll’s house, and it had no fire
but the smoke of the towers in the night.

Here in the darkness we try to remember.
Even the shadows on the wall
have faded out of reach,

and here are the echoed sounds that surround us,
opening their mouths for the audience of mountains.
On backs of mountains old, rivers climb down
and mingle with the salt of the ocean.

Here there are sounds, but there is no light.
Gazing at the formless song, we know
that day is passed—and also night is passed,
but morning is forgotten.
Gone with songs,
our years of songs,
and days devoured, those weary whispered words.

Quiet. Close your eyes.
She sang to me, in the soft hum of the stillest night.
In my mind I ran,
on the sand of the song.

Touch the rocks, or feel the sky. I stand atop
the sea cliff. All the open blue, sails as I sit
beneath the sun, and birds above.
Bright waves crashing, winged throats calling,
circling song: memory steals
my old wild eyes.

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