It’s not yet midnight,
but the world quickly moves on
with its compelling wheels.

Yesterday, the headline was breaking news.
Today, it wraps suya,
toothpicks pricking its dead soul.
The black ink that bled for its print
is already forgotten.

The old train chug-chugs, clack-clacks on —
no hanging clock can stop it
to mourn the old lady who missed it.
It forgets the running faces
of the rushing landscape.

The river will not pause for tears;
it keeps rushing with stones
to join the sea shells.

Do not boast that your grandkids
will know your grave before the weeds —
the circling vines cover even the epitaph.

Tears dry on their own,
leaving residues of pain,
photos of memory,
and seasoning —
some bits of laughter still lingering.

Scatter the anthill;
by sunrise, they have built it again,
bearing no grudge.
They alone will not pause for architects.

The door opens and closes,
takes and sends away.
The key fits, the knob turns,
it is locked —
and it moves on.

 

 

 

 

Photo by Denis Vdovin on Unsplash