The FoolA Memory Song
Updated: Jul 30, 2020
Streets of old do mask
The love I have for an old task
The goal to find
The search to see
I am he who is behind
And he in front, is me.
Memory sings her final breath
As her visit brings her final death
And buried beneath the wandering trees
She becomes a bird
And finally flies free.
Can words fly?
Do they cling to the page?
Will they flee when I die?
Or become sooth and sage?
Not that, not that,
The wrong questions are of no more use than a mat
To tread on when seeking
To close a wound when bleeding
Ask me not for I say,
"Begone with your questions"
"Find your answers out in the day!"