Exiled
I pass the stranger
on the street.
He wears a gray coat,
the color of the sky.
The light is gone,
exiled for the day.
The world is changing.
The stranger speaks
in a foreign tongue.
His sickness not
long for asylum.
To Rainboot
I listen to the stone dreamer,
who straddles the sun
and brushes off the sunlight.
I listen to his wise words as
he runs out of time.
He has no time for regrets.
I listen in as his voice faints.
His soft voice is as
compassionate as it is brief.
I listen to him because he
is a truth teller.
He does not feel so great.
Still, he rarely complains
even when it starts
to rain and he’s without boots.
The Stones Whisper
It takes little to die.
The stones whisper
To the plants who
Keep them company.
Mischievously,
The stones spend hour
After hour talking
About death to
The plants, who feel
Suicidal as a
Result. They begin
To wilt and bend.
The stones continue
To make the beautiful
Plants sad with their
Talk about death.
It is out of pure boredom
Which makes the stones
Speak about death to
The plants and also
Out of jealousy
For their soft and
Gentle features.
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