Articulate Sunlight (no. 127)
Fields you could see
a wolf running across.
In the articulate sunlight,
a meandering crowd,
ceaselessly searching for the one
whose note will never sound.
Old men playing chess,
send the pieces flying,
a raucous laughter filling up the emptiness of dawn.
I always look through the mirror.
Something happens for me to hold on to
in the distance, past my gaze;
I came home, carrying the news of that road:
Ahead of us, nowhere.
Somewhere behind, I see us crouching.
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