The Mystic
For my son Omar
Exterminated by the tree’s light
it is not oppressed.
The roots fill out and dry off.
The faces evaporate beneath
their masks.
The birds adhere to the wind.
The sky hits the floor
like a lost echo.
The fog is everything
to man's harvest.
The stars have neither light
nor form.
The world is illuminated when I pass.
Copyright © Jose Pena | Year Posted 2005
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