at the mausoleum of my ancestors
i light my 50 candles
put the white carnations on
glass vases
every nook here is painted white
the grills are always black
tradition we always honor them
on on the coming marked day
we who remain alive flock and pray
despite the sufferings inflicted
we show respect and recall
and savor what they all left here
never mind the deed we are one in saying
never mind those dagger words
we keep the fortune of a lifetime
those that they cannot carry in the
world where they are silenced now
black crow and rusty screw
These are poetic experiments. Man's quest for the poetic element never ceases. He is always caught in the eye of awe. He does not make the rules now. The rules change depending on the emotion that time and space feed him. He must see everything with his wide eyes gaping. The beginning of poetry too, like philosophy is wonder. Look and see. Do not stop wondering You are the poet. And everything is poetry. Wonder. Wander.
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