I collect now
echoes of the old street
like the sound of old sardine cans
ran over by dirty slippers
small rocks piled for slingshots
and the chirp of caught birds
or the singsong verses
of loud, mean lullabies
because now the road is beautiful
but dead lonely
mystic, clean but empty
upon my seldom-opened window
it seemed to look like
a dead river, torn
the echoes of children
like the spring water in May
had dried up and was lost.
