by on May 1, 2009 :: 0 comments

On an empty road
a voice called to me.
Shadows followed me.

I felt stabbing pains.
In the branches I
heard a kind of cry.
It hardly mattered
that the sun rose for
the last time. Where the
cry came from I heard
my name called out. I
saw the branches shake
wildly. In the mud
I left footprints. And
I told the voice to
remain silent. The
branches were still. The
sun rose for the last time.

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