Whose tunes are we?
I told you to keep mum dear,
On our return from
The dying woods of
Complaining crickets.
As evening melts into
The big bowl milkiness of a merry moon;
Sorry dear, communion claims abundance;
End of everything.
You were hurt
But understanding.
Kept silent giving ear to
The cattle hooves sounding
Over the metal road
After the big long search
For fodders end.
The cattleman
Took his flute
Began playing it
As no body was listening.
His mellifluous tune
Went filling on some inner thing
It made us, the moon and the wind
Entering into his flute holes,
As notes of an unheard music.
I took your readily responding
Hand to reach harmony.
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