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Wednesday, March 28, 2007

The Story of Living Things


the soil knows
for each living thing
there is a story;


the shoot speaks of spring
and birds talk
in twilight tribute
to the branch upon the tree,

gardens dance
when the sun strikes
up the band,
ladies wait all in a row,
their roseheads tilted
by a flirting wind,

whispering to their petals,
warning of the rain's duplicity;

my brother speaks
different to the night and day,
don't listen;

even if your heart melts
with his crying
don't come out to play;


the river swishes along its path
that never tries to explain
but takes the lead,

tries to steal kisses
from chaste fishes
that puff out indignant gills;

it ignores the wind
who tries a new song every day,
it honours the rain;
that gives it strength
to proceed on its journey;


as much as the wise owl
loves its mistress moon;

too-hooing the most
endearing poetry,
wooing in the darkest nights,
for the lady to open
up her veil;

it calls from its silent tree,

my coy selene,
listen only to the stars
that speak of us in terms
of saviour and sinner,

don't let the clouds caress
you, don't think the horizon
your most obedient lover;


and the mother soil listens
to her sons and daughters grow,
with a knowing smile;

each breath of living
writes its next chapter
in the book,

though it may lack the art
to decipher the spirit,

so many children in her
being born and sleeping;
she hears all;


for each living thing
is made from a story
and its most
observant listener.

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