Read Poems by Jose Pena

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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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