by George Freek
Swallows rise in the air
as softly as feathers,
but they go nowhere,
then disappear, as if
they’d never been here.
I feel the heaviness
of my fate, as if some God
was once in this room,
but is now gone away,
to leave it a sterile place.
Among the dying leaves,
rain whispers a somber song.
I sip a cup of tea,
and question the stars,
made wise by time,
but they’re distant and grim,
and give no answer to me.