©️Serra

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©️Serra

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The winkers of the morning stars
count out cities and forget the numbers.

He lost his money but not his greed,
He reads the newspaper upside down.
My father called him a kind man, once.

He had so much more than a person
could have had, during that time
But none that he could see.

He was a kind man before he was blind,
my mother told; One morning
while she broke the
bread into halves, too small.

There are many who forget themselves
in bronze and gleam of gold, all artifice.

I know not him apart from in tales.
Yet, echoes of him reach me from among people i know.

Somebody's sorrow is making me weep.
Somebody's heart hammered
by death,
is making my sorrow, yet again.

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©️Serra

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