the longevity of

poesy is in

its listening, not

the human hand

steadfast, grasping

pen and presses

when just

10,000 years

of sun would fade

away the letters

stamped on pages

until they fluttered

white as snow

in the rays.

now, the earth is

cold calling

in respiratory ages

mountains rise

and falling like the

breaths of sleep

in rock.

mother time's

hand feels a dot of

braille in her sweeping

forward: the names

of ancestral strength,

another, little babylon.

the music box of

universes rings for

a few seconds, the theme

of love sings forever

under our today's

encounter of her.