Classic Poem

Desert sand, my body—
when the wind moves
I creep.

My brain
a creaking mill
in a frozen stream.

My soul
the ghost of him
who played there as a boy.

My heart
a dead man's house.

Owl and nightingale am I—
seeing only through darkness,
heard only at evening.

The hours move like rustling leaves on a tree—
When the leaves fall
let only gentle fingers touch them.