Poetry

When you would be absent,
O Druid, I will know you better.
Time leaps my watch―
I have become blind.
 
It was not enough to
read― that was not written yet.
I am coming down the mountain
to meet the dust.
 
Life was not very kind to me.
Too much undoings had given
me a white sheet to―
write the names of fugitives.
 
I sweep the floor, I wash
the black earth and shut―
the windows. Too much knowing
had made me a dwarf.