Late March Poem by Manonton Dalan

Multitudes of feet walking afternoon
i can hear sad song, whispering mourn
my feet hurting now from long distance
i know i'm not only one; good hour now
gate open to east side, raven crowing
everybody looking with darkness thought

i found a seat beneath an old oak tree
i sit, massage my feet; relaxing to be
clicking cameras sounding like scissors
clipping grass; with occasional scream
i shrink to my chair fearful of sorrow
i can't hold; my tears started to flow