Oh, yes, we want him to be
comfortable, they say, yet no one
comes forward with a talisman,
with a profession of love,
with a single dried rose
from his own father’s funeral,
with a poem written in stone.
They talk among themselves
and seem confused. You can hear
the wind picking up, can see
the light fading. The light is
fading. Soon the stars will
come out, sharp as diamonds.
Soon he will free himself
from these bonds. Soon he will
turn, leaving them all behind.
Photo By: Anders Sandberg
