Moon of Old

Sages sprinkle their white ash and hum in quiet

in quiet, they repose..

old songs run down their walls

like movements of sound

ringing out in the black

in the quiet.

through the metal bars,

she shine, she illuminate

through the hate, they illuminate

shamans of love

rush in and bow to the sky.

Your purity is more than me,

and more than I.

You are old,

older than me,

you’re all older than I.

You know things I cannot say.

Sages you wring the night dry,

washing your rhythms in time.

On your metered prose

I can only sing,

over you,

under you,

with you,

to you,

for you,

moon of old.

– janberry. © 16 mar 2017. 4.04am.