A Pile of Letters

September 6, 2015 § 2 Comments

My dear, the wee hours

have their own memory rules

I try hard to break.

 

My dear, all those eyes

looking outside, far away,

they think they can see.

 

My dear, no answers,

no places to go and rest.

Always in the crowd.

 

My dear, the mornings

keep coming like waves, breaking

on time’s waning shore.

 

My dear, this bird song,

the same promise every day,

ignores our time games.

 

My dear, the birds sing

for they’ve already yearned for

this light a whole night.

 

My dear, in that dream

there’d been enough room for us

if the light would wait.

 

My dear, after you’ve been

everywhere you’ll go there again

where everywhere is.

 

My dear, there are hours

that count themselves, in circles

of days with no names.

 

My dear, in the night

the world is full of people

who cannot forget.

 

My dear, we forget,

and everything is as if

from an other life.

 

My dear, the morning

arrived early before dreams

could find an ending.

 

My dear, on my skin

a story appeared written

by life. I’m reading.

 

My dear, people replace

valuable things when broken

but they know too well.

 

My dear, the mornings

have endless hours in their first

minutes of silence.

 

My dear, don’t listen

to what the night will whisper

to keep you awake.

 

My dear, there’s a whole

city built by such letters.

Most of us pass by.

 

My dear, there’s a wind

that knows our stories and when

it blows we listen.

 

My dear, the language

we now speak to others is

full of borrowed words.

 

My dear, last night I

dreamt of a pile of letters.

And then a wind came.

 

My dear, beautiful

sentences can build a wall

and lock us inside.

 

My dear, how do we

meet when not moving. Birds fly

even in their dreams.

 

My dear, we escape

our own hopes like big cities

are blind to the stars.

 

My dear, we can’t wait

even as we’re waiting for

our heart is moving.

 

My dear, I tried to write

to you from my island,

words sank on their way.

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