The day will soon be gone
To touch or not to touch
The day will become a week, a month, a year
The sun will cast a shadow across our graves
where cold lips and cold hands no longer have the gift to meet
The world doesn't stand still, waiting for us
It's forever turning
As raindrops roll off the leaves
And mangoes ripen on vines
And birds flirt and mate and nest
None of them are measuring their movements
But here I sit,
mourning for the scorched earth that doesn't get rain,
the immature fruit that falls off the tree and dies
I cry for all that is never realized,
lost in the world's turning...
namely us.
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