Masks of Liquid Fire

Lost Inès, fire-bells, storm pixie
How quickly the lightning succumbs to the flesh
And hope is squeezed so silently in our chest
That light, doesn’t flood our vision, but warps us
With a kind of fear and anxiety

Won Inès, there’s no winning in the tragedies
There’s only ambiguity and doubt and fear
The kind of thunder that makes you climb under the bed
Or paint in the closet, or immerse yourself in the unreal

Creator Inès, there’s no season when beauty dies
Because it dies each day and in every person
As we decide to label them something, to limit their light
We kill our dreams to manufacture new ones

Cowardly Inès, there no one left to run home to
Not the night of courage, or the love of art
Not even they can save us, we are just that
Solitary bandits, cats and ambitiously warped

Memory Inès, there aren’t rooms I can go to
Only drawings, a canvas of your success
Where I’m reminded of the days of summer
Where the Eclipse held the potential of everything.

If Loving is Destiny

These poems mine, created early
Are nothing but the soft sense of gratitude
To life, what offered us so much!
If we took her for granted

Let it be known, that I’m drenched in dream
That I hadn’t known of your art yet, Hae.mi
I hadn’t felt your little joys
As a kind of graceful thunder

In my world of watching the eyes
Of human beings doing what they do
These poems mine, are reflections of nature
That drop from fountains like

Our toes wet in the dew, this living
Is so beautiful, even without possession
The feelings melt into a cohesive whole
Integrity with identity, wishing with hope

Touching briefly as light upon branches
Making love with a spiritual connection
The poems, on youth and ruin, are fading now…
I am nothing but a spy upon your divinity

Set in your beauty, hungry for your soul
Ready to deeply bury myself in your goodness
With the water and bread, with you as the last drop of honey
These poems mine, they just whisper

And there’s no grave to them, only endings
I’m talented in endings, as I am a decoration
For the muses, to life and all that we can never touch.

 

Photo Courtesy.

In Winter, Merits have a Woman in Mind

Listen, Hae.mi, there are no paths closed
Between you and I, where optimism points her passion
Where the door is to the universe
This is not the time for prayers

But the time to act, my lovely field
Where I play in all that is Heaven
O’, I’ve known thee in thy dress of whiteness
And in the tempest of thy insomnia

The league of ours is beautiful
Based on the soulful arts, and
I feel as though I’ve not seen the last
Of your smile, in my poet’s arms

The sacred sacrifice of the bard
Is not nearly over, the muse bends
In a festival of tempting destiny
Such being the idol of my consumption

To the beauty I know I rest in thee
To the wonder and harmony of all that’s good
Hae.mi, the secret entrance to your life’s totality
There are no citizens or policies there

Only the abode of ritual and sweet shyness
The last warm flesh of hope and gladness
And all those things not native to me
That you possess like jewels, fruit, perspective

An abundance of so much radiance I keep
Following your spark for a hint of the luminous
And at the court of your entrepreneurship
I’m firm like the dawn of the world

For your sunsets and miracles of action
Your nurturing of the beauty in all of us.

Photo Courtesy.

Her Gratitude Tasted

In palaces of fire and water,
Hae.mi, how does the heart not lose herself?
When from rim to rim she squanders her beauty
In the pangs of gorgeous motherhood!

And it arouses me, because we stayed at home
Where roses meet their blowing end
And fragrance falls on thirsty lips
By gates of Eden, erect and wet

Our first elation met vaguely understood
Beneath the mirrors and hunger of our youth
Not all in world I have despised
I, who could not have who I desired most

Beneath friendly fire and blossoms of the misunderstood
In winged freedom’s last designs
Where I touched beneath your skin
The kisses have no names that you can utter

The pleasures have no shame when
Each to each are wed in friendship,
And obscene gratitude, and a lifetime’s ache.

Photo Courtesy.

Blooming into Native Serendipity

(Lost in Gaia)

I love you for not knowing me
But echoing me, like some stranger’s lost invincibility
I love you for your kindness
In the same sorrows we have all fled

Like youth’s retreating eyebrows
Like songs we used to sing
I love you for your no tomorrows
For your doomsday moods and emotive vitality

For your hairy shadows, and Costa Rican reunions
I followed how the healers move the mystics
Just today, as if it was a story I was familiar with
I love you for being in love and falling

In love with something bigger than yourself
I love you for your storytelling and your
Witnessing, the quiet birth of the apocalypse
Of every blue moment entombed in rapture and in awe

I was captivated by your Venusian fertility of art
And poetry and the musing of eternal questions
I love you for loving deeper in sweeter tones
Than I found use in doing, after doppelganger loneliness

And Aspergian humility, I played in shadows
I love you for not being there, when the divine stood on
Inside of me like a flame always glowing
I love you for your absence, for being

Especially preoccupied with your own drama
For your personal story of mirroring and copying
The feelings we all had all long, they still seemed
More blessed in your company

Somehow more vivid on your face
In your essays up the Western coast
Entwined and enshrined, I love you for the book of poems
You told the ocean you’d share with the world
I’m still waiting for my copy, by the way.

Words from the Ocean

If a few drops of the ocean can
Reminds us where we come from
If a few drops of the ocean

Can make Mars home again
Hae.mi, there’s beauty more than skin-deep
More than spark and chemistry

There’s elemental wonder in
The way the waves move together
They are made of the same stuff

Like how human beings are 99.9% the same
If a few drops of the ocean can
Cleanse us, then when it rains

We have to remember, not to be afraid
Of getting wet, it’s how the wind moves
How time walks, in moisture

Tears that draw our worlds apart
Hope that sets our records straight
Faith that wounds us with idealism

Trust that pains us with her betrayals
Thirst that aches in us for each other
The ocean’s beauty can not fade, but we will

Being in the ocean by myself, was
What being a poet meant to me, writing
To nobody in particular, but wishing for a muse

Hae.mi, how many times in a life
Does the sailor fathom your depths?
How many times a year, do fishermen
Ask you for a look inside your heart.

On the Flight of Desire

We are organs of each other, feathers of tomorrow
We share genes like hairs of our forever
Mutating to the timing of us

It’s not choice, it’s attraction
It’s a thrill of fantasy caressing reality
Hae.mi has a smile, I know it without knowing it

When she wants to repeat a moment
That felt like a bit of forever
Lost in the joy of now, a murmur

That’s all it took, all it takes, sometimes
When we look into the skies, we know
Nothing lasts forever, and it’s good

We are organs of time, breathing colors
Exploring the senses of beyond senses
And rejoining in the emotion of immortality

Hae.mi had that shaman side, she’d say the most
Philosophical things, at the oddest times
A bit like her son, he played games with destiny

We are silver fishes, that don’t swim but fly
It’s not choice, it’s attention
We attain the repetition of the essential things

We are delivered into silence this way
With the feeling of tomorrow
Being something we can’t live without.

An Ocean of Stars

The ocean is a great intelligence,
It’s feminine, wide and free
An earth-soul shelter for our freedom
So when we reincarnate, we have something

To go by, stars in the milky way
Our galaxy of sensitive pulsating, Oh Hae.mi
I feel the stars calling me by my name

Si-in sees the ocean’s beauty
Si-in reads the woman’s magic
Si-in feels the shores wealth

The ocean has led me on into the Earth
I have no time to be unhappy
No time to say the sky meets the ocean

At some point, Hae.mi kisses the horizons
But that is not my job, I write
You course in my blood, my blood of the ocean

Shadow dancer, and strange, Si-in leaves into the inside
Without a care for convention, softly entranced
To the rhythm of her voice, that’s kindness

On the lulling roof of waves, below the
Throng of moonlight, that’s peace
A freedom of stars reflected on water

For so many miles in the half-dark
That’s creation right there, Si-in knows
Hae.me, our legend has a brightness

We’ve made stories between the waves
We must not lose faith in humanity
Humanity is like the sea, said Gandhi.

On nights such as these

 

 

Graceful one, I am thankful for your skill in celebration

I’ve lived through you in a few short days

More than I have myself have lived or loved

 

I who, can never be a Mother or a friend like you

Hae.mi, beloved and always, the dark sweaty leaf of time

Is thick with longing in me, I sleep only to dream of you

 

I fill my heart with gratitude, only to learn the lessons of your sweetness

In the flower and in the heart of people

There’s no color that truly fades away, only transforms

 

Graceful one, with open arms I have found some solace

Hae.mi, hospitality of warm wet tears of belonging

I never knew or owned, the long rains fall provoking my mortality

 

I’ve lived in thirsty hours watching you, like a piece of youth returned

I who, can never be a Mother of a friend like you

Hae.me, betwitched and so completely filled with the nectar

 

As I sleep in isolation, my consolation is your freedom

My tenderness, is mirrored in your independence and success

My joy, the sense that you have transcended dependency  in others

 

Autumn nights have taught me this, and your deep acceptance.

I have promises yet to fulfill as my heart blazes by the seashore

Hae.me, why do you stalk me as the rice fields stalk the harvest?

White Horse in a Black Storm

I am aroused by your happiness, he said

To the woman in the torn jeans greeting babies

On the northern most tip of hope, she sprang

 

 

To life, like a cat in motion beneath the yellow-combed leaves

It was an eventful day, where a lady might become President

But he could only feel the electric current

 

 

Like warm bread rising for Hae.mi, a flood of fascination

Turning exquisite costumes of Autumn, undressing them

In the mouth of faith, that can only taste one thing!

 

 

The ocean memory of hair dishevel, salty lips

I’m aroused by the way you walk, your addicting optimism

Your platonic truth, bursting through like liquid laughter

 

 

Breaking down barriers with charm, skipping over awkwardness

And burrying into the self-forgetfulness of intimacy

I’m so hungry for you, I’d let the white arrow run through me

 

 

As I prime the memory of your future with your own goodness

Silence prefers the passion of shadows today

The mischief of delight walking naked in your eyes.

With great delight I sat in her shadow

(Alternative name: Shadow dancers)

I’m going to fathom the Korean psyche

Once and fully, for an era of emotional revelry

Hae.mi, deliver me from the ritual

 

 

Where discovery is the fertilizer

Of the red blood in the rawest apple

Your cheeks to string me with ornamental majesty

 

 

At the emergency of poetry

At the threshold of clairvoyance

There is an empathy between your breasts

 

 

Where time is dense and flighty in-between

The feathers of the long agonizing months

The short breathless cycles taking you back into the artistic source

 

 

There, poetry is an oxygen of embracing

Irrationally more than we can have

With more moistness of vision that we can comprehend

 

 

A last luxury of feeling something sublime

Hae.mi, the trees will sink their trunks deeper this winter

And I will stand in solitude among their tall haloes

 

 

Pregnant with what comes next in woman’s world

A lily of the valleys of time and hope.

I Close My Eyes

 

Let me kiss the softness of the night

Hae.mi, to which I’ll never know

I am the wildness in your purity

Though if I yearn for it too much, it will go

Into the music of misaligned intention

Into the pictures of faces unknown

Back to the masses of our stories

Our stories that are always wounded

You say I remind you of some unpleasantness

Can I not exalt and rejoice in each invisible encounter

For in my poverty of heart, I’m indebted to be haunted

I am very dark, but lovely, and loving – or else

An anonymous thief, ready to be caught

As a famous beggar for gifts of tenderness

I am the mystic honey in the simultaneous midnight

I am the lonely wolf of lost time, there’s no room for me

Between earthly lives and mothers and sons, I’ve been left

Abandoned by the vulnerable timid ones so cautious

There are silver scales in my snowy pupils

And I am your student, fine-arted through the fall

Let me embrace what I cannot possess, Hae.mi, I am dumbfounded

Though I indeed was once so innocent

There’s no closure until the time of new lovers

I know how sleek the seasons move

The souls of winter are my fondest friends

We’re all souls of mothers and pieces of each other.

The Little Dew

 

Hae.mi, with the mood for loving kindness

I fall upon thee, as the last violin concerto

From some former life, which I cannot name

I copy the Korean scripture, as if it was known to me

Hae.mi, there is no life worth living, but the one

Not thine, not mine, but something else

Reminded from a child’s face, I linger there for long

Unable to remember the rapture then, of living

Of knowing with any certainty, anything

I am trapped between seasons aware of my own mortality

With a holy assembly of symbols, copied by time imperfectly

There’s no original art to this loneliness, only a kind of death

No God but a scattered Universe of galaxies, points of light

That tremble faster than I can move, Hae.mi, that’s it

You have surrounded me like water, like air, like perfume

And I am left with nothing but the memory of own imagination

That softly whispers without reply, in darkness, in the night

Where we cannot sleep and cannot name that thing between

The hours that are not tame, so sleek and pearly like the rain

Hae.mi, I’m lost to oracles and harmonics of melodic Korean

Without choice fruit, but the power to love in my own way.

Time with her Long Storm and Rainbow Nose

Until it puzzled came
I blinded centuries with my will
To continents of ecosystems entertained
Until the arctic got her drills

For oil, diamonds and the last hurray
Of a species running stock markets
To fetch the bills
I cannot live with you

Greed of white-man firmaments
Let Indian and Chinese colonize Mars
While you flood here with latitudes
Of European migrants over-run

And Germany caught on her heels
Colonial, accustomed and common industry
Alive for the moment, without regret
Wild as the guns they keep at home

While plummets stars from these flags
Too heavy to touch the angels
Too righteous with their own sense of God
Time will interdict the blossoms

California can’t lead the world
That is destined with acute degrees
Judgement day of time and eternity.

The Pain of Nice Dreams

The Pain of Nice Dreams

Eun Ji, I am haunted wherever I go
Trust between this Earth & Ether
I am what I am, with fifth essence
Time bleeds and broods not shyly

I am hunted and descendent
In burning bright and riding light
I am the calm harbour of weary years
Death here becomes the vistas

Of life’s own immortality and passage
From one state to another, decades roll
Like leaves and sun that hits the mountain
And flowers that remember not stories past

I’m glad, I think, and what’s more
Time’s newfound speed is a grace to me
One day to sail to a freer land
The round berries red, have been thrown

Into the river, our houses torn down by the storm
But what is life, but a beating heart
And poems which have not appeared
And experiences that will not be had

And women that won’t ornament our hours
I am that which broods, chiding poetry
Of how it squandered itself on vain holiness
Sacred to itself like a passionate dream.

Lyricism Wrought from pain

And in this time, of my material poverty
I’ve come to realize an important thing
That I have no riches but my spirit
No prosperity like the kingdom of my own thoughts

The love of the universe
Trapped inside of me, so innately
Yes these must be wealth enough for me
Not friends, women, comforts, luxuries

Can compare to the range of joy
That sets its bounds of beauty upon me
In the cosmos of my heart’s secret place
I also like most all that comes

And least of all, all that goes
For change is oft too unpredictable
To draw the sunsets from my mind
Or write a golden lines that stands

As the best, of my unoriginal mind
Life is but a thought, sailing in breath
A great league of breaths that hushes
Over everything, beauty breaks the heart

In the right way, even as we
Found more joy in sorrow than
The reverse, tonight is wonderful
Tomorrow is profound, and that my dears

Is the hidden love in creativity
That the heart knows the songs
The music it must make, not me, not I, not we.

Seattle Diaries

Eun Ji, I fear the richness of the mouth
That I love too many things
To kiss any one of them properly
The snare of my love for literature

Is then songs in me that prove relentless
O, I have forgotten all praise
But as a betrothed prayer
I melt as the seat of all goodness in me

Eun Ji, how I wish to read your autobiographies
Every inch of your memories
That our ancestry shapes us so intimately
The words that come from hearts and countries

Cleansed from regret will we wash
Our wounds in the ocean of all of us?
The deep seated womb of time will
Bury on, in blood and sunburnt grasses

The fear of change in us will too be overcome
By life’s ministry of new moons and traversing birds
We’ll go on thinking of love, beauty, sorrow
And in the lost delight and unwon splendour

Of the stories we create, we’ll be
The departure of words into experience
Where nothing is forgotten and remembering means
Creating new layers of memories

Memories as awkward as the flesh
Experience that burns waiting for music.

Ode to #556

The Brain, was designed
To run with the Cosmos
She catches splinters of the Heavens
‘Twere easier for her to renew
In our 20s her wild inspiration
And run evenly and true
With the genius of our star’s reach
To forget the past and invent the future
In a swoop of eternal muse
Find ways to create second chances
And build ships of light
From burning clay and barren cities
To trod the galaxies in search of hope.

I Had Been Leaving Stars for You

I Had Been Leaving Stars for You

Eun Ji, I have been leaving behind all
The things that no longer matter
I made a list, discarded those objects
How divine it is, to let go of possessions
Both animate and inanimate, and identity

Segments of identity no longer salient
That dingy firmament, I know all that harp
Music no longer required for well-being
For we must transcend even our dreams
And arrive at the education of a lifetime

Cry, youth! Love, cry! World, sob!
It’s all no longer so important, it’s natural
Organic symphonies of cycles and timing
Let every virgin sob, and man cast with too much doubt
And duty that is no longer true to innermost self

It’s as beautiful as poetry, to experience this
The shadows and rays, valleys and mountains
And mist, fog like diamond webs of imagination
And still, a trillion stars call my name
Under my breath, I wait for universal sentience

It’s reaching me, in telepathic cues from the beyond
I cannot strip the curtain bare of wonder
My constant state of wonder is all that matters now.

Hoarding Poems Mine

Hoarding Poems Mine

Eun Ji, our hearts were like poems
Resilient, created early, so unknown
We’d had the patience to count words like coins
Not that we wanted to accumulate
The ruin and heartbreak that comes from this work
The unread poems of ruin and youth
And dreamy sanctuaries that would
No doubt ultimately devour us!
We disappeared in our dusty craft
Without readers, sometimes silent and forlorn
We craved the ultimate turn of poetry
In our hearts, that racing feeling of being alive
And we more or less went about our way
To get it, to achieve the neurological experience
The nirvana-state of what a poem could mean
To a pen, to a hand, to a little voice
I had never fallen in love with a poet
The sparkles, jets, black flame, the idealism
Of it all, being poor but doing what you love
It’s something I think I could bare, bourne, become.

What Molly Said

What Molly Said

Ye Molly, bring all your dreams you dreamer
We have more in store for dawns
And voices so dear they feel too young

In our heart’s melodies rapture and ecstasy
I know not wisdom of the palace
But I’ve met beggars, with em hearts of gold
So tell me where does the cotton blow?
And how far does the sea reach for shores?

That I could wrap the wonder of the world
In the songs we sang, those acts that were
Our parodies of private philosophical blue

Write hard and clear about what hurts
Illuminate the way, for roads diverge
For the beauty of these differences
For the burning of horizon-Junes
That stretch like cinnamon stained memories

Of who we used to be, Molly, we’re dreamers still
Aren’t we? Let’s keep our faces
Always toward sunshine, for them children are watching
Our hearts are wolves that roam wild at times
The trouble with our kind is, we think we have time.

The Best way to predict the future is to create it

The Best way to predict the future is to create it

Death does not concern us
For we knew we were mortal all along
Because so long as we exist
Death is not here, or there
And when she comes

We no longer exist
Until then I may at times
Distract myself with pleasure
Not because I don’t seek
A profound sense of meaning

But because, we built this world on pleasure
And by tasking it I am made human
Made to know why people labour
Though I know there is nothing
Outside myself that can ever enable

Me to get better, stronger, richer, quicker, smarter
Everything is within
Everything exists and will continue
Without me, so if I seek anything
Outside myself, it’s only me dallying

With the inevitable reality
Of a wonderfully inner cosmos.

Quality of Living

Quality of Living

There is divine earnest in mood
That drives me with madness
To divinest sense that earns
Inspiration and majority intuition
The survey of my own many hearts
That can prevail over custom
Handled dangerously, combat habit
And in this, I am fortunate
Gifted with the jousting of many moods
The inner multitudes revolt
And I know, I am no single self
These myths we portray, my brain
Is a cosmic event that can never come again
So there is glory in a discerning eye
That is not attached to self
But revels in the experience
Like a baby boomer waiting to retire
To become an entrepreneur
Or pioneer a new way of aging.

The Initiation into Poetry #amwriting #poem #writer #literature

The Initiation into Poetry

It’s said that poets are anxious bohemians
A strange figure in a dishevelled landscape
With some kind of Baudelaire complex
Alive with sex and tragic forsaken brooding
Or some schizophrenic Holderlinian tick

Some Plath-worthy enigmatic illness
That is hard to treat, harder to diagnose
But the truth is, poets invent their own reality
On another level, than you and I
They are like jesters in love with words

They can’t stop the ranting
They are infatuated with the music
And the temptation of anxiety and trepidation
The anticipation of freedom that is the after-taste of verse
Like wanting to be loved, and not knowing how

I knew a few poets who are mild autistics
They will imagine something beautiful about you
But’s it’s an ultimately self-annihilating plight
Like how we all need another soul to cling to
Poets cling to beauty, and the soul of other poets

And love to die for their art, making good martyrs
I guess you may or may not have the stomach for it
It’s not something you can do exceptionally well
It’s the feeling of going to hell and heaven
On a dime, to imagine you have a calling for it

It’s a daily demonstrative love you feel
That you put and marry to the page
Day after day, until all memory is a fragment
Of a poem you once wrote, it starts to have
A life of its own, poets taste glory in each day
And aren’t particularly afraid of experiencing pain.

Saved by Lit #RedLegion

Saved by Literature

Gongjooh, let’s love our craft
More than life itself
For to love something truly

You must first love life
The mere glimmers of success
In the labour, the path

ii

That was our own intimate savior
The partner who never leaves us
The thing we are most compatible with
Meant to do, haunted by, hunt for

Eun Ji, do you think we will ever find it?
There between cafes, between workshops?
Between readings, between lectures

And classes, and talking about literature
With other writers and fans
In the throngs of artists

The humans who have dug up MFAs
What’s the goal of art?
Where do words lead but inside

 iii            

This path of divine dreaming
Is taking me so far into myself
Like a meditation between the distance

The layers of who we are
For the love of what we wanted to do
A vocabulary of push-pull
A deep lyricism in the music

The drive, the ethereal passion
And violin altars, prayers at midnight
I cannot complain with this at all.

 proud member of the Red legion. It lives.

A Grand History of Culture #poetry #writing

Fed on the Universe

In the belly, in the brain
Vocabulary is drawing
The long-dead past
And the descendent divinity
Of the future
The sun producing

Powerful dreams
In space-time
A word can do this
The stove of love
It burns, cooks, is fetched
By hungry onlookers

Underneath my skin
Even in the simulations
I observe and create
The layers of magic
In the heart of mirrors
That print, rock, hologramize

II

And for a moment
I knew the hand
That is the mover
Nature, God, Time
Feeding on everything

More than dopamine
Fill there is nothing
But one supreme
Love of life, the endearment
That survives all wars
The gratitude that endures

All obstacles, persecutions
Struggle, that spirit
That feeds the fire
To create, to sing, to write.

Fading Away Little by Little

A Quiet Distance

There are quiet features
In my letter box
Journals that went unopened
Hearts that went ungiven-away

It was celibacy all around
In my soul, that waited for years
To write the perfect sentence
The ideal stanza

ii

The deviation from without
To satisfy the necessity of within
Talking in bed to the poems
That defined a lifetime

There is emblematic unrest
Vulnerable to horizons
Autobiographies burned
In isolation, nothing shows why

iii

In all this distance reduced at night
We prune our youth with gratitude
For how things turned out
Eventually, the night takes us

Outside of symbol into ambiguity
A distance between
Ourselves and the racing stars.

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Spring is Coming

Earthly Interference

The mind is an unforgettable red place
For dictions of Spring
For the rigid dreams of youth

That comes to fruition
Years after, with great sacrifice
I am to loving art as

The sky is to the rain
I carry it in my heart
But it only runs through me

In a downpour of my festive passion
In cycles of my famine and desert
The mind is an unforgettable red place
For faces I collected along the way

For intimacy never truly won
Only intimations of what might have been
This flickering hood of flame
Reads for the shootout to theory and practice
All that stood between us…

Remnants of a Thousand Springs

Remnants of a Thousand Springs

The things that one grows tired of
The longing and the loving
And how the face gets older each season
I used to hardly perceive the difference

The wonder and joy are calmer now
My senses no longer follow
I am gracious with just a few
Wheeling stars, a recurrence of spring

A belt of purity across the simplicity
A sacred look a day from a stranger
I imagine to be a good omen
I’m aware of the fuel to inner burning gold

That lets memories fly away like birds
Ascending to a winter heaven
I’m less fortunate than before, I’m lucky
Only as a nomad of the inner worlds

Learning to live without preference
My attachments burned away
Until I found a solid grasp on happiness
That didn’t require significant objects
The props of living, remnants of desire.

Like words on the tip of the tongue of Silence

Going Blank Again

i

Is there an expiration date
On silence, the silence that begs us to write
In bloom we are silent
In dialogue with the universe
Then to remember the moment
We write about it for the

Rest of our lives, that is how
Mystic writers are born
Prophets who go by the name
“Anonymous” nice to read you
You will notice many of them
Shuffling down the centuries

II

With a surreal smile on their lips
In the arms of Spring
You will see them
Somewhere on the street
On the first murmur of the wind
Across the ember of the months

Through the river of language
Untying what you were taught
With hurried words that doesn’t
Need many breaths, they can say it all
Ageless, with buried open eyes
Unhearable, with the quality of silence

III

Beneath their stainless anthems
Nameless speeches to humanity
Is there an expiration date on silence?
I think not, only the extinction
Of an audience, only the missing
Information in the cloud

In the space between planets
In the time between civilizations
That’s the eternity were beautiful words go.