Poet, playwright,
My private life is
Broken china on wet asphalt
Trying to gleam but only a dull reflection
Of once art remain,
...
Slowly, the sun peeps
From its mourning grave
Red like a forgotten bush fire
Touching the embers of a waking day
...
When finally we come out of this long
Silence
It will not be for hate,
Rather, the not wishing
...