I HEAR THE SONG
Young man, sitting on rags
looks up at me and asks:
“Hey bro, how’s life in the concrete jungle treating you?”
“Fine, just fine,” I don’t respond and go on.
I hear the notes beneath the weight of a song, unable to fly,
— curled up in the tip of the tongue.
The notes bounce off the hardened walls.
Sounds written in the thick air of canyons,
carved by melodies in stone.
Buried inside, deep inside
each grain of the sand life walks on — I hear the song.
I hear the song.