In a musty old apartment room
(a lonely capsule in the rain)
she dries her hair and sadly sighs.
She lays the towel by her thighs.
Not the flickering of the lamp would know
what she spills into her hands.

Smoke drifts coldly to the ceiling;
hope drifts slowly out the door.
The television set is snowing;
she’s still sleeping on the floor.
The petrichor surrounds her soul;
the cold outside is growing.


The old man clears the grave of weeds
and throws his yellow flowers down.
Breathing sharply through his nose,
with his hand he hides his frown.

He is moved to something wistful
by the birds up in the trees.
Sitting down, his last hair taken by the breeze...
He smiles – and comprehends.


Between an old man and a window,
in a park, a parent laughs.
The child cries, but the parent laughs,
for he knows what the child will.

Between an old man and a window,
something laughs in satisfaction.
As the rain beats on her windowpane,
the spheres resume their action.



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