Twenty-First. Night. Monday

 Twenty-first.
 Night.
 Monday.

Silhouette of the capitol in darkness.

Some good-for-nothing -- who knows why --
made up the tale that love exists on earth.


People believe it, maybe from laziness
or boredom, and live accordingly:
they wait eagerly for meetings, fear parting,
and when they sing, they sing about love.


But the secret reveals itself to some,
and on them silence settles down.
.
.

I found this out by accident
and now it seems I'm sick all the time.

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