Blue daffodils open, speak to me in a language
That is devoid of light, life.
Blue skies whisper to me from beaches.
Sunny skies sultry eyes and multi-colored stained glass windows.
The pope sang at the church, he was an old man,
Ninety-seven, and spun stories from napkins.
His mind broke through the torrential waters.
His heart has mended.
Tomorrow we have been caught in a spiral
Of nothingness, a spiral of gladness that fills the heart,
The spiral of words broken, broken.
The symbol of nothingness is more barren than
The nothingness that came from me. Words are memory.
I look out of my bedroom window and stare at the sparrow
On a branch, singing a sad, lonely song.
The daffodils are broken and nothing is left.
A man comes riding on a bicycle, his gaze is fixed on
a cloud, high above him, the clouds are dark.
His mind is broken, broken. He can’t open himself up,
He wears a black hat, and speaks to the sun gods-
Don’t talk to me, don’t talk to me.
Tomorrow is another day.
The sun rises over the hills. The hills are barren.
I make sure everything is set for my mother, my father,
I don’t understand how anything is done.
I don’t understand how a spring rain remains, hidden,
In the bush of the bough.