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I sit at the kerb and watch days pass by –

one after another… they are born at the corner, red,

wet with dew and naïveté of the newborn.

Slowly they grow into sun-shod monsters of destiny,

near-sighted minstrels of heartbreak and daily –

singing and dancing in

dutiful abandon, passing the life from one instant

to the next… all the while their twirling skirts gathering

rose-blushes, dust and gaiety.

 

Soon enough, they sweep up all, and are themselves

swept into the trashcan at the end of the road.

I watch them fade into hermits of grey heart

and failing light, shadows with oddly shaped symmetries,

dragging their beat-down feet

into night.

 

They take everything with them – days, when they die.

The mad gaiety, their text-lined eyes searching meanings,

old ways, new hands… bridges of light…

 

Only their minstrel-skirts twirl on – far-sighted bards –

of memory.

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