Rain gently pats the roof
Offering wet perception
And the ink blots spread
Into blurred patterns
This is reality.
Keys, the new paintbrush of linguistic imagination
Attuned to the heartbeat of silence,
The ecstasy of zero.
A thousand screams, a thousand pains
–for a moment, the horizon
lines with warriors for someone else’s war.
The past is just the past
Forever with me
washed with the blue tint of winter.