With our hands, we dig in the dust
no sticks, we find
no sticks, we find
no stones
just drifting sand
It’s not the present-day
that weighs heavy
that weights light
In our pouches
It’s the past
as what is the instant worth
if it sinks into oblivion
when we forget
It’s the foretime
as the present only merits
what it becomes
when translating into fame or infamy
So we dig, deep
for the dirt may stick
under our fingernails
and reflect some unknown colours
Our knees bite on to the ground
and yet when we stand up
no marks, no signs
just the stolidness of negligence
We walk off
our feet stomping firmly
our arms moving in time
and ahead lies nothing but the change of season
"Autumn is a second spring where every leaf is a flower" ~ Albert Camus
