Nobody knows this little Rose --
It might a pilgrim be
Did I not take it from the ways
And lift it up to thee.
Only a Bee will miss it --
Only a Butterfly,
Hastening from far journey --
On its breast to lie --
Only a Bird will wonder --
Only a Breeze will sigh --
Ah Little Rose -- how easy
For such as thee to die!

Emily Dickinson

Monday, 8 February 2010


And it's over and over and over again,

The games of fill the empty space outline

Gaps which so need colouring.

And age eats in to the growling hunger of time

Da capo

And it's over and over again

I can hear the minor cadence say

It is finished but not resolved: repeat

Da capo

And it's over

And the silence scares me more than the noise


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