We now hear phosphorous bones
Standing in the wind on their own
Their flesh clinging to them in bits
A thinking flesh of beauty still left
Of an exquisite music of tree wood
Creaking in the wind, like crickets
Recently absent from the tree roots.

Bones jut out from stones in sun
Of infinite beauty, just like them
Saying nothing but doing nothing
A silence of song, a petrified song
Of morning to dawn, a soft night
Not fully reassuring , seeming so
 Like a fakir of beard from a grave
Beyond the grave ,making silence.


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