Those who have stories

Do not tell any of them.

An unvoiced saga

May have one or more of

The occasional clamour

Least likely to resound

The one interviewed

Is the man next door

The one worshipped

Is a blind poet on his death bed perhaps

Or a lonely artist

Hiding in the mountains

The bud that bloomed and breathed it last

Before it blossomed full

Has fragrance lasting even to this day

That charms bystanders

Without a clue

And sure… the grave that saw

A womb deliver

is important too.

The Venus which ruled the sky

During Eclipse

The Nile that never said no

The sand dunes that crashed yesterday and

Are now being rebuilt

With the same heap of sand

The girl standing in the desert

With a cup in her hand

The basil, the bees, the bed,

The boot soles

And have you ever noticed the

The Surgeon’s Glove?

In the contest between prose and verse

Silence wins the title for being

The Only Language of Love

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