I'm wearing away,
slowly and gradually,
not like dust,
or the sand one wave can wash away,
but like how glaciers melt leisurely,
and that dried flower in your book,
I can be here only if time could betray

and in the moment of silence,
i search for my forsaken voice,
buried somewhere,
far and adrift,
under the summit of sufferings,
the rivers of rage,
under trampled dreams,
under the mottled page,
the voice so aloof,
i have forgotten it so well,
the past of calamity,
only if i had a voice; i could tell

there's a world inside your mind
and it wants you to find
a place for others,
without changing
the bookshelves
the music
or the way that you walk through the door.
It might be the means of replacing
the fear which stops you from living
and giving
and laughing
as yourself.

Have you forgiven them yet?

The moon,
for it gives you out no secrets.

The stars,
for their beauty
which often hurts your eyes.

The sun,
for it never dies, unlike us.

The dead,
for their silent smile.

Have you forgiven them yet?
I ask

myself.

You spoke about leaving
So often and for so long
That I didn't believe
You'd ever be gone