At its Soles stuck like pitch of the road dust,
breaks on his cheeks still a ray of sunshine.
He puts in the tired worn-out leaves.
And now he does it for the last time his hands
The Clock is already closed for hours,
but his eyes look straight forward.
He forgot what he was looking for what he wants
fits entirely into this barley grain.
No child begotten, not planted a tree
was no doorbell ever his name.
He has far too many weddings
danced, dragging his bag but for years, of its own.
Speaks to the asters, listens to the chanting of the plane trees. And do
still not what it means to be free.
© Simone wedge
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