Echoes to my right are clicking rocks,
These stones that dance come here my way,
Nor scorn the heat as much I sweat,
This burning mound is last I try,
And left I looked a door would close,
The last spots of light are gone.
If Mithra can offer a plate of dark,
Then I shall taste honey from flower more,
So give me leave to pollinate
The dried tulips to eschew tears in flood,
Bleed my cheeks, scour mine eyes and ears,
Let me walk away and never return.
So burn my nails nor book to scratch,
With no brow to pluck, no life in luck,
I give the shade a worthy name in stone,
So when I finally lay down above the sun,
It comes clear to me now this is anew.
All is silent, but I can never be.

Category:
Mysterious, Poetry, Works
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