The poetry of the earth is never dead
The cadence of the crickets will give way
To the slow percussion of falling leaves
And the soft whistling of the winds.
It’s rhymes are stacked in books
Waiting to be read as the sun sets
Or whispered among the pigeons
By a woman tossing bread to birds.
Yet in all the spinning of this ballroom waltz
The dancers stand up against the wall
Talking in loud voices, dissonant against the wind,
For though the world is poetry, nobody learns to read it.