Watch Hands

Weeks pass with changing sun
as the air stays the same.

Wind’s songs hang from the clouds
and I hear as they fall.

Silence breaks on the moan of lips,
longing for the slow distance.

Numbered words, trapped in lines,
echo like the future’s past.

It will be the same as before.
Time moves the same, and different.

Spring’s sky bursts with the day
and the dreams of night.

Wind’s songs hang from the clouds,
and I hear as they fall.

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