Here they аre, coming close –
you wouldn’t believe –
so close to each other
they seem never to leave.
Closer than any of us, lonely drifters,
lost in the crowds of strangers: brothers, sisters…
Their rumba’s endless and flawless,
where not a note knows what’ll come next,
yet keeping singing nevertheless.
I walk upon ’em, and fool around,
playing along as if we were in one good band.
We go round-n-round
and no one’s sad.
‘cause we’d embrace this simple idea
that we’re all kinda clouds here –
frail, not too predictable, taken away by drive,
playing round-n-round
our heavenly rumba called life…
Jul-Aug, 2011