You make silken threads
and throw them
like into the aires flows
to my hands
for neither of us wise
to look out.
Like silent to silent
to weave worms
to weave threads
to weave silks
like spiders to a net.
I'm washing silken threads
into the rivers
to make a painting of us
it is strange
for neither of us know
how it looks.
Like blind to a blind
to wash the tears
to wash the silk
to wash the dye
Like deaf to a deaf.
It is not as beautifull
as we'd like
but it ours for this night
improve the next
and now to make for rest
into the days.
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