Evening birds settling dusk on the telephone wires
Vibrating air columns of a fundamental tone
The words flying, sharp as darts to a target
An arm thrown back, so swiftly the cards fall

Flying upwards first, then scattering and fluttering down
Meaningless now that they no longer bare meaning
This is the first harmonic breach of letting go

We will not find water in rain-tanks leaking
There will no longer be
Beautiful trails left for future moments
We will not play games
Against the world or make up our own language-

This is the stop sign
The dead end street

The soft satin ribbons of the unforgiven
The wall of blame that inevitably is built
The mournful notes of a singular silence
As it is and has always been
Lost in translation.