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