Everything will become a shrine

If nobody dances
what is to become of us?
Waves will crash over the rocks.
The poets will think no more.
The moon will no
longer be seen.
An ancient home
that will fall to ruin.
And what of the drifting
clouds above me?
Well, tangled weeds
will spread around.
And barefoot
everything will leave.
All wet with tears.

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