on and on.
the birds fly past us
never stopping to ponder
the two greying bodies
standing knee deep
in the lake
fishing poles reticent
half eaten apples on the
docks
on and on.
the clouds roll by
but still not a word spoken
only a few more silver streaks
reflected back to us
on the water
on and on.
why do they go past?
why
on and on
without a word?
if they stopped,
what would they say?
speak, mortals:
for silver spent and grey spun
in silence
is wading
knee deep
into death?
or would they say
peace, mortals:
and be still,
for life is
on and on.
No comments:
Post a Comment