In the middle
On the black steep grass overwhelmed by every step of every memory
Passes yet another one,
Unnoticed, Fading.. Irrelevant..
It matters not to the grass whether it ignites, burns, smokes or dies..
it does not know, it does not care,
it is only grass.
Oh, but the holder does.
He with his bag on his back of black and white,
tonight troubled, tomorrow not.
He is in a circe, until he himself, becomes grass.