happiness

they say happiness comes
in moments unexpected
comes one early morning
knocking to your door and you least expect
such a face
bringing you all that happiness promises

years of pain have alienated you from her
disgusting you say
and you do not feel anything anymore about her
she comes and you look at her
happiness

you tell her she is not welcome anymore
happiness
does not work at all
she has no fidelity
she cannot stay that long enough
to appease

she is not that true
to rebuild what once was broken into shatters

the journey after

someone gets used to failures and he
is not affected about all these things anymore.

he keeps himself enclosed in a circle.
he has his own galaxy moving into space expanding

he has his own orbit, a number of planets and
meteors

there is this uniform sound of dolphins
traveling inside a world of oceans

it is not a call for help or the jubilation for joy
not even a sound of grief

it is what one does not utter
in a journey like this

it is a direction
going there and there and there and there is no stopping anymore

art and the ordinary eyes

exercises of the mind,
this morning chill and the waiting hours,
i open the window
to see what the call is another
ordinary day,

a vine hangs in the garden wire
freely it gives three flowers
which the wind takes away,

i take time
this is the moment of conversion
when the ordinary day becomes
special when the three flowers
symbolize the trinity
of faith, hope and love,
the ordinary human eye
seeing the whole world
in such a short time
such beauty,

art plus
sensitivity.

the gambler finally finds
a conspiracy with the liar
and the thief,

father is correct, this
is the family of vice,
the eldest is the gambler,
and the younger one is the liar,
the thief is in the middle.

a friend, a woman , a widow, the old one

where have we gone
on those years that dance in the music
of hushes and whispers?

those merry widows
painted their faces
as they grow into
the folds of their old age

she is one of those
who dreamed
from nipa huts to the
ice castles of her
fantasies

she thought she can
stay forever
like that... forever

but no woman stays a woman
throughout her journey
she assumes some shapes
to survive
some have turned into camels
in the arid desert
some polar bears bear the earmark
of womanhood in their cold
noses

her body knows when
the right time is right there in her mind
but there is one thing that makes the sound
of her permanence...

that she must always be free to be
...forever

that something which went wrong

there is a ripe papaya
too ripe for my hold and i climb it
too weak for my body
the tree swings to the other side
and then the papaya fruit falls to the
ground
crushed

something goes wrong somewhere
something that you are about to hold
and yet crushes to the ground
looks like a vomit &
you don't want to eat it
back

that most candid criticism of the self

things are running wild and not in what you wish them
all to be
there is this rage
of self against self

some 'selves' are running against you
and some are exploding before your very face
indistinguishable
untouchable
yet there is this sense of
i am i
that one is me too
that i am some pieces scattered
and that there is also another self
that keeps gathering
and assembling parts into a whole

ugly and not worth the watch
these are
your hands spread your fingers
just for a show
like a peacock at the peak of its heat

you feel that there are storms coming inside your chest
you wait for tornadoes and boats and calls for help
then the calm
that is the idea of your thesis

and
antithesis
a woman a man
a peace of quiet and some chunks
of motors chomping
on a stretch of day

what for? you are that one too
that seeks self-destruction
you wait
for another explosion to include your whole being
you lift the weight of the sighs of righteousness

lost and never found, here is this man,
and yet
you reap anger for those who wait and see

you are smiling still and then moving away

forget me, now

i have taken the plunge
deep in the bosom of the blue sea
into the depths of the ocean
to be with the fish and the
corals of this sandy floor

there is no coming back
there are no reasons on the surface
there is this final plunge
searching for eternity

forget me then, creature of light

cursory reading of life

at the end
only the headlines matter
all the details are forgotten
the pimple on the left side of the cheek
the mole on the that furrow where tears pass
the skin tag on the pelvis which you keep touching
after a night of sex with another
person other than the usual pulsating creatures
around you,
at the end, it does not matter anymore
whether you were the bee
or the flower or that firefly who always wished
for the night sky and the full moon,
what matters most
are those bold titles archived at the end of your journey
you are in a rush for another destination
there is even no time for another cursory reading
of your life,
the past lives you like to forget
you want to get out finally from the circle of the cycle
only until
if you deserve it when you know what not to take with you.

on my sister's 59th birthday

she was the first to gift
me a brown sweat shirt when
i had my 6th birthday
and i could not really forget that

now on her 59th birthday
she took charge of everything
down to the last detail of the flower
that gives accent to the
center table to the cake's flavor
and the ginger slices that
go with her fish fillet

she is the bread winner of the family
her husband is weak and
good for nothing

what can we do? we must love what
she loves
because we love her too.

time is like a slimy fish
it swims inside our hearts
eluding the hands that
want to catch it

we were talking about
another sister who is sick
with no one
in the hospital

there were other talks
whatever
i did not pay attention anymore
i have my own
version of insecurities
and i do not wish to tack
it on their piles.

we said goodbye
the night was deep and the
longing continues
deeper than before

life is shorter than we think

an inch away
always an inch away from
sudden deaths

that is how we measure
time
luck makes it a little wider
a second
becomes meaningful

a friend dies alone
in his Makati apartment
but he was able
to say
good luck to all his friends
away from him
before that crucial moment

he made peace with God
i imagine
who's next
to succumb to a very silent
room
i imagine
what peace is there.

i think again
bubbles in my mind
life is too short
for all these quibbles.

i go out
take a walk
talk to no one
and bathe
in sunshine

getting naked

what makes it interesting?
it is the seldom way of showing
what is there
it does not happen everyday
and that is it, but
i imagine if we were born less
the shame and the malice
there is actually nothing there
but humanity and the coldness
of society
there is no lust in there
but just our own shape and skin
and bones wrapped so tenderly
with care

love and understanding is there
only when
we shed off the crude manners
of our built-in civilization who for long
in the pretense of religion
and governance
have taken us away from our very own nature

the death of candidness
the scourge of expensive dresses

once i go naked inside my room
and look closely at my body in the human-sized mirror
this is reality i proclaim to my senses
there is nothing lewd in my belly
there is love in my navel
there is this kingdom of love
hidden inside my guts

tomorrow i will be honest
i will wear no masks
no clothes

i will shed off the name that they gave me.

the orange cat

when you arrive tomorrow
i will not be there
the key of the door is found
just beneath the earthen jar
at the porch

there is an orange cat

with
one eye
it is not ours but
we have become friends
after i feed it
with a fish that we have not
eaten for 3 days
we have not seen each other
since then
after we made love in
the kitchen

i will not be home for a week
you know the reason
if you have some questions
talk to the orange cat

it will tell you some important matters
that i haven't told you

listen to every meow that he says
it is rich with metaphors
about lust and longing.

literalism

i must mean what i want to say to you.
the letters are clear my speech is candid
like the way i face you on that day of mourning
nothing to hide the tears fall as they fall
nothing to wipe and pretend that this is not the
correct hour for the confrontation of what had long
been conceived by the fallopian tubes of time.

words create the inconvenience of having to
understand what they really want to convey,
those that we sometimes reject from the sentence
of the hour. The last second arrives
and one word keeps staying. You reject it.
What keeps in place is the truth.
This time the lies looking like white flowers
under the noonday sun wilt.
No water from your mouth can make it alive.

At last, you are free from the hands of the world.
A white bird against the white light
Ascending to the stairs of the unknown.
Do not believe. How could you?

Literally, the world of non-words dissolves.

the blackbird metaphor

the Beatles had it
as the struggle for freedom of the blacks
that blackbird singing in the dark
wanting to be free

the Americans
had that blackbird swirling in Vietnam
that chopper that saved lives
that war that caused them humiliation
in the world's opinion
that lie of Nixon

Steven Wallace had eight ways of seeing
that blackbird
Noah sent that blackbird
that did not come back since it was happy
picking on the rotten flesh
of the remains of the dead
the ninth way
of seeing
disobedience

One writes again about the blackbird
that lives singing the songs of neurosis
in his mind
at winter time
The poet commits suicide
His colleagues bury him
with eulogies and " what ifs"

One sleeps with a blackbird
The other sings with a blackbird
Someone flew away with a blackbird
and did not come back
since then
So many stories
So many poems are written

Now i have to write about this blackbird too
But there shall be no disturbance
No unhappy ending
I swear to you.

shadows

shadows
exist only with light,
the darkness
however are their
homes
there in the silence
of the walls of
despair
they keep
waiting

tomorrow is always
another day
the sun whispers
at the break of
day

shadows wake up
copying always what you
will be.

haiti

tears fall from
the weary eyes of the world
as its million ears
hear the chant
and songs of the
strong people
of Haiti

God is with them
always
with its billion hands
ready
for a trillion cares
the zillion touches
& living thoughts.

sunday

time to be alone
on a bench under the trees

time to see how leaves fall
silently on the grass

as the world watches us
in mutual
idleness

this is what lazy Sunday is all about
doing nothing

reconstructing the pieces of
the past week.

soliloquy 4

so i may not be flushed out from the system
like any fecal matter
i comply with what you ask of me
i am now a flower
and behind me are blue clouds
and on my stalks
are leaves

no thorns, no worms
for you do not like them

now it is your time to love me and keep me
forever
you must pretend that you are not a worm
that you are not a relative of the thorn

now it is your time to become a bee
now you must buzz around this garden in our minds
now you must pollinate me

it is all in the imagination
imaginary bee imaginary flower
how perfect can our imaginary world become!

kiss me in my imagination
shape your thoughts like the lips of a lover
now all too hungry for my love

soliloquy #3, on imagination

so i may not be flushed out from the system
like any fecal matter
i comply with what you ask of me
i am now a flower
and behind me are blue clouds
and on my stalks
are leaves

no thorns, no worms
for you do not like them

now it is your time to love me and keep me
forever
you must pretend that you are not a worm
that you are not a relative of the thorn

now it is your time to become a bee
now you must buzz around this garden in our minds
now you must pollinate me

it is all in the imagination
imaginary bee imaginary flower
how perfect can our imaginary world become!

kiss me in my imagination
shape your thoughts like the lips of a lover
now all too hungry for my love

the misery that seeks company

when failures
fall down
they decide not to rise
from the place of
their perdition

from where i fall
hardly surviving
on hands grappling
and breaths grasping

they simply sit there
silently
looking for
more of their kin and kind

like some kind of
bus passengers waiting
for their trip
to nowhere

soliloquy

in prison
am i
inside the mystery
of your arms

i lose myself
and i tremble

i search for my soul
it is nowhere

not knowing what to do
to regain who i am

i explore the labyrinths
of your heart

every chamber and corner
and passage

there is that exit
of familiarity

outside i see nothing
but contempt of you

in the world of lies, life is fair

accept the fact that sometimes we say things
that we do not mean, that sometimes we burst in anger
and we hurt and then we apologize that we do not really mean to hurt

sometimes we show feelings too that we do not really want to express.
sometime we say 'i love you' and yet we are just compelled to do so

someone is dying and he needs you badly at the end of her day.
sometimes, accept the fact, that time strains us and we become

the liars, the hypocrites, the fraud, and the swindler.
and most of all, we keep it for a time, making some stares straight in the eye.

accept this fact, we are humans and in some harsh times
we decide, to survive, at all costs, no matter what.

now, we shall talk, and you shall listen and i shall write about the truth
of this fact. we are us conjoined twins in the art of deception.

lie to me as i lie to you and then we accept this fact: life is fair.

the one winged butterfly

in the slow history of the river flowing
she wants to mark her own name with her fingers

religiously she goes there on a ritual of her own
naked she dips her skin on the water

so soft are her feet on the bed of pebbles
deep down the fishes ask for more of her toes

touched the river begins to sing a song for her
the bamboo leaves keep watching what happens next

will love dance on the surface of flimsy reasons?
will passion appear and last forever?

the banks want to close in on them: the river and her
the sun is worried what will happen next


it did end, but it was sad, as sad as the butterfly that lost one of its wings.
the river loses its name as she plunges deep to the tight arms of death.

home again to the arms of despair

the waves are bigger in the middle of the ocean of my dreams
i sit on the sandy shore waiting
here is distance unfolding
coming and leaving at the same time
the hands are powerless in this
no amount of concerns connects us
once again
even if i surrender to the grips of the night
even if the moon swears
to shine till dawn breaks

you come like a shadow of an afternoon Sunday
broad and firm and strong as you claim yourself
in a name carved in stone
you're marvelous like a comet at noonday

it is late and i am weak
my knees are bent to the ground of worthlessness

you run to the sea and plunge yourself
you wave your hand before that
dissolution or that diffusion into the forgetting

i am looking at the horizon
it is as straight as life wants itself to be
who wants to break the silence of a line falling
out of a page? the smoothness of an edge
finally denying an importance

and then the sunset completes itself
with your silence
in that single splash
as you gasp for the last single breath
of hope
there is no stranger coming as
a survival
there is no new born child to revive
despair

i think it is horrible but on the other hand
it is divine
i remember that stair into heaven
rosary beads they imagine
hurled by our Mother

i cannot remember how that Sunday ends
i will again say it ends with the splash and then the edifying silence
the rising of the clouds
the resurrection of the dimming light
in the middle of grief
when handkerchief begins to show a face
of thorns

let me stop and think awhile, a moment of silence
please, drink this cup of silence with me
this blood of wine

how can i tell you that there is this deleted version of the story
in trembling i arrive home and then i scream
that was at first
and i realize the windows are closed like a man without ears
there is no use for doors and doorsteps
the stairs have long been broken

a deduction

the ordinary person that you meet
in our town
you do not even know my real name
other than Hey mister
but i do not really mind
i like it that way
just being another ordinary person
the one that smiles when you smile
at me
as i pass by you and you too pass by me
i do not stare
not that it is unethical but because i have my own thoughts
to ponder for the day

how i live my life in privacy
away from the mob
the wisdom of the crowd
the many
the extraordinary demands of the society
like how the ocean dissolves me
like a drop
in anonymity

i like just being myself
a glistening dew on the petal of a rose
that i put on the glass vase
all alone on the table

yes alone but not really lonely
just being special
to myself

this solitude
regaining strength from the past,

those old days
when my mind was murdered
because i did not bother to guard it
from the multitude
from them
not me

a loves story retold

i: seed sprouts, a head cover removed
detached

he recalls an island and two shadows entwined
under the spell of the full moon
mesmerized, exhausted, dreaming,
sweet sleep, lovers passionate about
sweat and tight flesh

she remembers
the embers and the cold darkness
the emptiness filled by his moans
and the quivers of her desires
silenced
all her senses awakening to the wonders
of togetherness and wanton
touches
lips upon lips
weight upon her
helplessness amidst the ruins
of her seduction

ii: time flies as a swift bird
stones covered with dust and humus

he said she was part of his past
now that he is old
and ugly
and helpless in poverty
with a young, native woman
caring for him

he remembers something sad
as separation of two intimacies
a distance of two words
opposed meanings

she said she had forgotten him
her first love
she said she lives alone in the land of many winters
and knows how to take care of herself
she said she is happy
and now so free
she says the apple trees in time shall bloom
a daughter sits under it and she takes her picture


iii: the sun rises in the east, that is a fact
the storm subsides, one gropes for therapeutic metaphors
along the silent nooks of the shores
and then the reunion of clauses and phrases
wanting to have complete thoughts

he told her things may be lost and people may be hurt
but chances are
there are rainbows sometimes that reconnect hearts
bridges that dissolves distances

he told her that some missing pieces are found
some chains of love become a necklace of reunions
and reconciliations

he did not tell her though because it is so hurting
that
he did not really love her that whole enough
when he made love to her on that island of desire
he was thinking of another one
his true love
that once broke his heart many years ago
when once he
was whole and true and young and
honest and real
when he met her
he did not tell her he was such a shattered glass
with splinters all spread
on the bottom of the ocean floor

true or false

either you become true
or you become false

if you are true
there is only pain

truth does not offer you
happiness

if you keep on hoping
no one comes

if you become false
a platter of joys is served

that is how they work here
falsity has rewards

truth's place is elsewhere
it can be eternal

but when is such a question
that demands a quick answer

truth does not guarantee
temporary solutions to your grief

falsities are here
and if you do not dance

you will be a wallflower
& i know you will not like it.

to understand you

it is like i am studying a new subject matter
to teach for another semester because that old professor died
cancer of the prostate and i am the substitute,
it is time consuming, but for lack of will to refuse
i am back again to something that i hate,
to begin, to read what i have long forgotten,
remembering is always painful, there were less happy days to reckon with,

you, i have long dropped the idea of this dead tree
growing leaves again, roots not deeply rooted, the bark coming out,
but this is an obligation, to be with

you, again, to live in a house where life nests
time, where the ought becomes a code,
as i open the pages for my study, i stopped and think of other ways to really understand

you, i gazed at the ceiling and then shifted my strategy to the floor,
something flashes,
i must start at the end, and then go back
to that previous poem.

what makes us alive really

there is this sense of rottenness
we keep it
but we do not want to be outdone by it,
it stinks deep within us
but we keep always believing
that this cannot harm us
we go on
day by day on the common routine
the ways that make us
livable in the house of our heart

there are nails of the past
and the hammer that keeps on
bogging
we are never destroyed somehow
but like stairs
we are built and heightened
to become a big house
where others too live

there is this sense of brokenness
somehow
we start from there
and on and on the casualness
the smile that you see
every morning that we meet
we keep telling
i am alive and i am still intact

discarding

inside my mind are the stories they all related to me
when i was small, mama, what i like about mama,
was her story about the elastic man, who saved his
woman of affection from the deep well by simply
extending his rubber hands.
papa cannot be outdone, who with his reserved silence,
when we rode horses, and checked the tenants of the land,
told about the story of the emperor who had no clothes,
my son be always aware that people cannot be trusted
verify, check, counter check, do not believe outright.

there were myths, and parables, there are theories
so many reminders about survival kits,
about being calm and reasonable, there is no rush,
time heals, people forget, sins are forgiven, matters of
the heart must be kept inside the chest, and the family
must always be the first to consider, less travels, save money,
keep secrets, everything in moderation, keep the readings,
donate to the church, be friendly with the powers that be,
compromise with the communists, give in to what you cannot
control, save the house, remember friends, be kind to animals,

i am sculpted. I am like a stone shaped by the rain and
the air. I am tired. But i am not giving up. I like to be a new
house, not the renovated ancestral one.
I like to be in a strange place. I am going away then.

at the top of the mountain alone, (and powerful) where i
can think more, discard all my built-in beliefs, i carry nothing.
i talk to the wind. I look over the plain.

I sit alone and watch
the moon.

ritual

when i wake up this early morning
she was not already beside me.

i do not want to rise and fold the blanket
and go somewhere else.

or read the papers, or sip coffee, there is
this laziness that infects my bones, a disease

of meaning, another slow day, the routine is
eating me, and i behave

in a manner that i am like a lame duck being
aimed at by all the bystanders

i am opening my eyes, and the ceiling is off
white, it has been that way ever since i got married,

why did i leave it that way? i have the money to have
it painted pure white, like a very clean slate where

i can write what i must mean, but i didn't, i let things
that way they are from the beginning, and perhaps

they will still be at the end. This is what i do next,
always always i do this: i rise from my bed, go to my

circular mirror and look at my face, they also do it,
and then i touch my cheeks and chin,feeling the roughness

of the beard, how they have grown long and so untidy,
the razor is ready, and the soap and water, but this time

i will do what i cannot do the other days of my life,
i will not trim the unruly ones, i will not wash my face,

i may slap myself, and then i give the mirror the grin
of the man that is used to all these doubts and shame.

i will tell it, i am now myself.And then i will the bathroom
another tune for my whistle, nobody, nobody but me.

contrasting sounds of a sunday morning

rain is pit pattering
on the roof

the wind is as gentle
as a whisper
of a new lover

when the rain stops
the footfalls pass by

the church bell rings
on a call to prayer

the sound of motorcycles
get louder towards the flea market

the cock crows and
jumps to the ground from a tree

here i am
writing another poem for you

it is the sound of silence again
words hugging like a friend's reunion

vicarious

you're off to Mindoro
on a night flight

from Davao
to Manila

i am bound for Manila
on an early morning flight
for a conference
in Faura

we're heading finally to
a new direction in our lives
to start this new year
with a lot of missions

you go for the smile
i will try, but for the meantime i keep
my mouth shut

i like you (i doubt if this is
love, it is just a very sensitive issue)
i may follow you
and pursue you (till the end of my
life, but when? and where?)

the hands of morality grip me by the throat
giving me the signals
that it really means what it says

you know what i mean.
i still have fences to mend.

there will be a nice hello.
hot and sizzling barbecue.

the goodbye will be as cold as
frozen meat
who knows, i will eat it raw.

forbearance

as i eat

my breakfast and you
start telling me about something that
makes me boil (a new debt incurred
or another lousy party for friends
or your way of clumsily handling your
private affairs
how can i be so interested in you?)

(honestly i want to scream for you to
shut up, but i keep my
cool head)

i continue eating and i pretend i like
the food that much
and then i chew my food longer this time
and tell you

'you look so beautiful today, my dear'
(you witch! my crazy mind insists, but
honestly, you have done more good than
evil, and i weigh them all in the scale and
i begin to have regrets, and i wipe my
mouth with a tissue paper and)

' i love you honey', (without really looking at
her in the eye)

the world out there is too wide
for narrow differences. (i am human and i
must be considerate)

' i love you too' (oh this crazy world! what is
it really that is bogging her innocent mind?)

life is so beautiful

i step out as the door opens
the rain just stop its downpour
it is cold and the flowers are wet
and the grass glisten with drops
of water

on its blade
the red rooster jumps from a tree
and flirts

with a gray hen
i look to the sky and then
around the nearby hills
some birds fly towards the trees
a carabao grazes on the plain
deep within me i still want
more years, more years.

what cannot be said directly

so you are in that stage of
having to dive like Adrienne
in the ocean
finding the wreck,

more interpretations about reality.

you climb the ladder and see
another world,

and here you have written another story
about something that you cannot say directly

the mermaid and the jellyfish
the hands of the merman stronger than yours

and the death of one
the name of whom is not written elsewhere

the sand, the sun, and the silence of your
deepest wreck.

the reason why one resorts to poetry

imagine you have a world
a government
a neighbor,

the world too cruel for you and you want to hurt it too
but you cannot,
the government that makes you poorer and deceives you
and persecutes you and you want to be one of those rebels
but you cannot
a neighbor that closes its door and talks against you
and makes higher fences
and yet you cannot complain because
you have no power
weak and helpless and you too
lost in the labyrinths of a complex lifestyle
no direction, no vision, no hope nothing to lean upon
or hold unto

those are the reasons why you go inside your room too
and begin to write, and somehow, you say

i am free, i am happy, i am living,
and my house is not burning.

disrespect/ignorance

that early morning i take a walk
on the path beside a ricefield

on the other side about ten meters away
a man is spraying the ricefield with
pesticides

the birds are too innocent for poison
and begin to eat all the worms that fall
from the leaves of riceplants

i am breathing poison but the man on the other side
does not really know what he is doing

the air cannot complain, i could, i know,
but i am too busy about a lot of things and thoughts

the birds are feasting on the dead
worms, and
i left the place at once.

this we have to know

we sow seeds
but we never come back
for the future fruits,

that is not the reason
for our sowing
we sow the seeds
as we travel along
the paths of our pains

we may have sown
the confusion and those
that follow us always wonder
where we are heeding

we are heeding to a place
we have never been to
so how can we ever know
oh, we too follow

the beatings of our heart
as we fall part by part
as we keep on the start
always carrying that dart

to start with

you get a handful of mud
add a little rain
and then you begin shaping
a face

carefully you put some
tenderness
shaping forgiveness and
mold integrity

you stop for a while
figuring out what is missing

your heart is heavy
filled with the usual burden
of love

you pour love
a basin of water
to a thirsty ground

something is broken
and you finally regret
what you have been doing

yet you begin anew
on a handful of mud
reshaping regret
forming another face

this time
more beautiful
it has hope & courage

in your world

in your world i descended
like a star i fall down
crush to the
ground and
take all the
pain,

you laugh
about this star that wants
to feel the
stone

too much humiliation
yet

time comes to redeem
what godly material was there
to make the
brightest sun

a heavy sigh under the stars

too many people to love
too short a time.....

yes, it is another year

another mountain to climb
from this valley where we sit for the meantime
under a tree where we get our drink
of the the mist
dew-like sustenance

it is another year on this cliff
we thought this is all there is
an edge
where there is no pushing anymore
another shadow comes
and becomes visible as a hill
then a peak
and then a tip of the high mountain
becomes another target
of this unending struggle to be
on top
of our worlds

sisyphus is with us and
we look at those backlog of years
a flood of tears
a harrowing furrowed existence
broken selves bones reunited
flesh mending like torn pieces of
letters
the contents of which you prefer
to forget

the routine

the routine is the path to
a prejudice
the stones there becomes our ordinary stones
the colors are the same everyday
and stopping becomes a stranger
the world rotates upon itself
and there are no questions addressed
to the passing wind
and even the fire that puts itself off
without your asking

time drags and routine does not mind

a man, and something within

a man cannot say about

what he sees , sometimes, he merely

gazes at it, and then

either he stays or leaves,

he touches the hand of the wind

and does not tell you

what he feels, his mouth is dry

and his hair follows where the wind goes

he keeps a lot of somethings inside,

one that makes

him feel a stone

nothing drips, nothing flowing

steady as a post

without light

during the night, without fear

he expels shame

and then he goes back

takes that.... something

and does not say

at all anything