Tongues of slacking fingers turn
the yellow pages of the book.
Between letters lies space, space of empty bowl
the shadow, the lamp, the oil,
without sunset, the vessel and substance.
Dried petals of last night’s flower
forgot the meadow of my mouth.
The breeze did not speak my name.
lost in the trivial oblivion
Even the sunset refused to caress my soul.
©My Valiant Soul