In the silence coming down
at the dimming of the day,
something whispers on the breeze
and it takes my breath away.
Does it tell me anything
that I don’t already know?
Is it more than could have beens
and a couple told you sos?
In the silence of the night
after the sun has gone to bed,
something sings a simple song
that just echoes in my head.
When the words come on the wind
do they tickle in your ear?
Do they brush away the clouds
in the evening sky, so clear?
As the hours slip away
does the music slowly fade
into memory and myth,
ancient stories and charade?
In the silence, when you breathe
in the taste of new day,
something rests upon your tongue
but you’ve got nothing left to say.
Does it matter much at all,
what you mean and what you do?
Will the day continue on
without making much of you?
So the hours come and go,
yet the song still wants to play.
In the end, who really knows
whether it should be that way?
08 MAY 2025