Saturday, April 2, 2022


Another unyielding spring
-- Sharp flowers 
Barely fill the field.
That's the way it is in paradise,
So little to call one's own.

There's always some kind of regret
In the words we carry
For the things we could never know
That made us hurt someone.
We feel the burn
Instead of understand,
That is not what is here for us,
Only the target that we struck
Shooting arrows in the dark.

They are old, these roads,
Desolate as they are,
These decrepit fortresses,
As unbroken as the horizon is.
There too much suffering left
To change them.