Instead of watching

In a cold chill wind one night,
I wondered what it would be like
To be somewhere balmy,
On a warm wind evening
Where cicadas sang,

And golden leaves gave up the ghost
And finally moved on to drift down
To a swirling river passing by.
An ill considered thing so far,
Once viewed from on high.

Swift river of life that moving on,
Carries our golden souls round
In vortice after vortice.
They still seek direction as they sink
Beneath the cloudy water,

Listening to the noise of a million
Sibilant conversations everywhere,
And permeating everything,
As humanity gossips its last throes
Instead of watching.


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