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.



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