The morning after
I leave.
Who will sit in
the cafés?.
The faceless-bones?
Or the few poets left,
still grieving on
the shivering child?
Rice-grinding days
The morning after
I leave.
Who will sit in
the cafés?.
The faceless-bones?
Or the few poets left,
still grieving on
the shivering child?
A Wandering Poet 