Standing in the Barbican

Its calm

Sunday morning, autumnal rising
red leaves whisk away
like old friends leaving

Looking for a way
I heard heartbreaks
speak to each other, crazy talk
Nobody keeps a promise

False talk comes easily in the afternoons
evenings are something else
while this morning begs freshness
and the richest autumn ever continues

My highest mind
keeps the strongest lookout
animal instincts merely glance
and the barefoot servants work within

Winter comes slowly
nobody cautions me not to get closer
People arrive though
“And the wind began to howl”

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *