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
