With the ceasing
pain
the mirror exhales
its imagery

The confines
of the room
exhales its distant walls

Like soap bubbles
on a child's breath;
the sudden calls
of whooper swans rising
and drifting,

the moment relieving the pain
of its body,
cleansing it
of the calls of mercy
that used to infest it,

agony now dancing
its Nurejevan conversations
between facing mirrors,
soundlessly spoken
in the swirling exchange
of glances,
gently

while hospital wards
depopulate
across the human nation;

darkness caressing the carcasses,

cemeteries craving their due

and wasted bodies come
with no refill


Everything speaks softly
with the fragrance
of precious oils
and the lowkey light
of an autumn's tale

Nothing
is the correct definition
of Anything

Words are uttered,
spread across the towns
like flocks of jackdaws,
waiting for the rest of trees,
their twigs and branches
and folding foil of leaves

There is nothing the matter

There is nothing that matters

Goodbye to all the sentient ones

Goodbye to all the rest