Birds whistle to be heard above
The sirens and the floating children cries,
To be heard at all, with the hiss of acacia,
The whispering oaks: So much to say,
So little told. The moments pass too quickly
Not to be remembered continually
To swirls of wind that lift the leaves already lost,
As if what hadn’t yet been said was too sacred
To allow a past at all.
Still the giant lifeless fronds hang down
Ominous and golden like they own the place,
And their brown blades on the ground
Release the green to be taken by the sun,
Leaving summer’s dead, the unholy ones,
To bask in piles of dust.