Enero, 20

We are old enough now
to know how dim our voice
sounds to those young, spry kids
who spring from the soil,
their arms thin and spindly,
heads chocked full of hormones
and great new ideas, good
old ideas. We are old
enough to be content
sitting and watching them
sprout up and die and sprout
up again, the planets
they inhabit burning
and cooling. We’re content
to hear their ambitions
ten thousand years too late.
We keep a keen ear out
and twinkling eyes. What more
one can do, we don’t know,
we have not determined
after eons seeing.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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