A name within dust, like leaves of past seasons,
lingers as if turning aimlessly in a stream,
trapped in corners of going nowhere.
A laboring fan jealously absorbs shadows,
twisting the shapes like sheep scattering.
A voice, a soulless breath, runs the air
in search of a place to settle.
Words tumble over the rocks of memory.
Songs speak of an era left behind.
Above, a gray blue theatre of substance;
hands of gods and hearts of mortals,
all of them searching for a place.
Roger Singer 