Finger comb my hair
Run through the strands
Let shedded pieces
Fall and drift across
Stone ground
An ancient soil
So many voices in different tones
Trees resounding
Communicating in words
They know no pitch is
Definite and each its own
Shadows are dancing
As well as they behave
A congregation to celebrate
Their liberation
Pigeons they draw close
A recognition
Within their soul house
Shared information
This one has bread
Or so it’s said
He will bring more
Orange eye black pupil
© GÄ
Poétique 