Looking out
the world is flat
reflecting only clouds

All diverse is disappeared
the only difference the shade of sky
mountains valleys green all gone

Remembering the preflood
when the globe had shapes
before the hope was ended

How to clean a window to a soul

To clear a window to a soul is not easy but
here is a way

First find the right soft duster
breathe softly on the cloth from the heart
and tentatively, watchfully, carefully
begin to polish away corrosion

The cloth can catch
and leave threads of itself
but with love and hope and perhaps thousands of tears
the rust on the soul window will clear

We have grown old

Invecchiati simu, frate.

Yes, you’re right. We have grown old apart
distant in distance and distant in time
but friendship is deeper than years.

We will always be brothers, brother;
our hands still hold the thin blade scars.

I see your face and you are your father
as he was when we were young
and ran and swam and threw stones at the sentries.

We will always be brothers, brother;
our heads still hold the baton scars.

And now we may be old my brother
and our bones may ache in the morning mist
but when they come to cut the trees
the trees which hold the world together
we will be there and we will be waiting
hand in hand and scar to scar.

Your nails dig deep

Your nails dig deep into my hands
We are scared, but trusting, shiver

All is for the best and all will be well
Sirens call the people

The lights of the aurora fade in the sun
and then a sudden darkness

The stone is pushed with silent force
Dirt, torn fingers, scarring

The light again, the screams, the silence
Nobody breathes. No-one says the word.