there are places where no mind
can reach
as far as the gate of winds

I'm counting hours, counting stars
burdened with the exhaustion of difference

see the hand write of time in my silent steps
black wholes in between my thoughts

I can smile, I am in the present tense of home

there are no attributes
in the centre
no spin into the crucifixion of the day

only the tenderness
of the sinking sun