Sometimes inside a quiet night
Waiting beneath a heap of mud
Is a stone that has been laying
Unnoticed, uncaring, complete
The stone is there, much longer
Than when you know of it
The stone is being, never at all
but forever now.
Whether a stone or a star
Beneath a heap of mud, or in space
Sometimes inside a quiet night
Its sound is heard, the weight is felt
What is it that needs to be explained
What can it be that is not known
Between a stone and a star
is a world of a difference.
Sometimes inside a quiet night
It will seem what it is, all the same.
YOU ARE READING
No Point Talking.
PoetryThere is no point talking about it. In fact, there is nothing to talk about. So, what do we have? This is not classical poetry. It is not contemporary either. The words used are simple to mean what they intend. Sentences are easy and sensible. Yet...
