Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Untitled Piece

Roads wrap around mountains,
final ending the last song
of crickets. Mountains to hills
and roads to goat tracks:
There is no remembering,
only forgetting -- and dreams.

Memories, sallow-faced,
half formed whispers of regret.
And for what? The world is still here.
It will be here when we are gone,
is here even if we were not born at all.

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