Monday, July 17, 2017

183. Coro a bocca chiusa












All their mouths are
closed
to me:

final wisps of daylight
stroke their weary
eyes -
mother to son, to
daughter -

now is their sleeping
time;
halls long
devoid of footsteps
in their echoing
bellies

closed
to me:
wandering down their
silent paths -
birds muttering in the
dying
day -

closed to me -
a language only
cedars
know:
rustling in the twilit air:
rustling lullabies to passersby
who believe themselves
awake -

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One Art, to recognize, must be,
Another Art to Praise.

- Emily Dickinson