This is what feeling is like
in his hands, his fingertips;
holding on to concrete
and the wind
That must be what sadness keeps
in his clothes, his body
Colors of gray, of white
and never-ending light
This is what future understands
in his eyes, his soul
Solitary wisdom
moving without seeing and believing
This must be what
This must be
This is
This
Flight of paper thinness
Board and covered
Thoughts
written, felt, forgotten
by everyone
But me