Year of the ox

A sound cuts
off the rushing wind.
And I remember you,
that impossible springtime.

Bowed in the morning.
Crying for the death
of pleasure past,
and tomorrow’s pain.
My body dressed for the living.
No wonder the clouds
turned into rain.

But life came out of death.
Every street, every mountain
lifting up the dew.
The richness of the land.

I will always understand,
your darkness tracking me.
To be born again.
Embracing your body,
don’t ever let go.

One thought on “Year of the ox

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