A House Breathes Through Its Bones
A house breathes through its bones,
Its summits sit like sentries;
Though rafters decompose-
It never denies entry.
Its ghosts lie in their beds,
Soft earth beneath their memory;
The shutters firmly closed-
The past seen only dimly.
How can each book end the same words?
Why we know the thoughts of others,
although never heard?
Man is a genie, out of the lamp
Man is a king, but also a tramp.
How can the forest lack for a tree?
How we make due with the least of all these?
Man is a vagrant, within his soul