Monday, October 20, 2003



Drums beating
fingers on the strings
the three sisters played it soft
a dull, drugged melody.

The bees in the trees
the crickets
all too distant
a mirage
a haze.

All is still
a hundred days
and stretched into today.

The sand like thickened syrup
flows slowly in the hour-glass.
The chaemeleon sky
slowly turned grey
all too late than yesterday.

Stillness, the perfect predator
the insects await another death.
Today they shall be freed
the heavens shower merci upon them.

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