I'VE poured my WINE

The Black

 

in the pitch dark

the wet boughs

of the burnt palm—standing at the foot of a burnt hill—

sing the song of silence…

silence: full of ghostly echo piercing through

ears, bones, flesh, and soul…

with refrains

ringing

like a verdict of the court sentencing an innocent to death…

grasshoppers subdued

stones deaf

trees numb

landscape dumb…

an ant slips off a stone for the hundredth time and

a little sweep of groaning water carries it

through the hills

into a gorge…

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