Passer.

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Is it this sparrow that sings to the sun, astray
from its silent void tangled in stars,
or does it sing to that eerie jewel etched in day’s
discarded noise — this sleeping world with its eye ajar?

I hear, and harmonize in quiet heed
its quick hegemony in life’s chaotic noise;
and what I hear is a quelling of all unwanted seeds
that liquidate this world of all melodic joys
.
It is the sparrow that splits the sky with a thunder,
a thunder that tip-toes through the splinter of the trees,
and how such a sound can cure this space, it makes me wonder,
Will my fears return when its beauty flees?

What is earth to this bird that bows upon a branch
and elevates its soul through a short evolving tune?
A long inviting moment where a song may implant
light into a darkness as evasive as the moon?

I may not know, so I must choose to listen,
for it is its song that numbs this world with moments long;
and in such moments, my soul will glisten,
and dance within the darkness to its morning song.

Lucidity.

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if rivers originate seas,
and indigenous skies fly
away where cities cannot rise
beneath Utopian rain,

and kings, who weep in dungarees,
mend to malt near castles
on native ground — where ghosts
invoke their mirth in vain,
and shadows dance
to the moon’s implicit sound –;

my pain would be peace,
a seed inching in each breath

i breathe;

a
fate kept neath the smile in me,

but the sea sends the sky
to watch over me now —

and i wonder,
is it i
or the river
that runs
until drowned?