The Hour Between Murmurs
The pavement rehearses no applause,
yet feet write a fugue on stone;
to chase the hours without looking up.
No one speaks, but the voices
wear a hundred faces.
A sea of spirits comes and goes,
eyes tucked in waves of haste
They do not crawl, they do not weep -
but oh, how time makes them run and stop
Even the shadows learn not to ask
why flights have to crash.
Somewhere, a cart of dreams stays awake -
It draws circles on fogged glass,
and they keep going round and round -
The world, it seems, is made of circles
and none of us must ask why it doesn't stop,
and why, in the noisy crowd where
everything begins, must it refuse to end?
