Under
a July sky, in 2010 in a lonely ruin lies an empty garden, long deserted by the
birds, I visited.
The
un-lacquered stones and old dry leaves, like lost, forgotten words, lay about. Here
a lone and slender-shaft like tree grieves, an hour before the dawn.
Heated,
the sunlight falls, as the afternoon recalls the time that Judas Iscariot, hung
himself here, — for then a breath, then lost; silent is the vista within! His
sorrow remembered, among the dust and quiet.
This
gentler place, un-haunted, lest the winds come; I stepped not into the garden,
where footsteps come, —no more.
No: 4533 (8-28-2014)
