WHAT THE WIND HAS TO SAY Comments

People pass by you, stretched out
in the morgue, as if you'd never
shed a tear or cracked a smile
or been afraid or lost a job
or returned home drenched by the rain
with blank ink on your fingers grasping
the newspaper.

As if you were mere wind
ruffling the flowers on garden walls,
bending the trees,
making the laundry wave on the balcony
and the plastic bag flit down the street:
a voice that says nothing
but speaks of all things in all places.
...
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