The crowd is many  bodies rising in numbers
Under a coiffure that  feels like a  bird's nest,
Hatching a cute chick in winter, a  bright idea 
That takes wings and flies away to  far space.

An idea is born ,a discovery, a tweak  in time
Whose author is not crowd but common mind
A buzz in a disheveled hair, a clash of minds
Not knowing ourselves,  ancestors in blood.

A miracle this  living, this giving up the ghost 
Watching television in a lonely village of  birth.
A crowd of voices  rises over a herd of cattle
To high above trees, the high years of  men.

A crowd of thoughts swarms in  our minds alone,
A crowd of moths found  dead on the window-sill
After a rainy night , hugging light in  window glass.

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