Poetry

To speak aloud

‘Who will slay this troublesome claw?’

I ask Night’s cloaked face.

Night snorts out a star, and says,

‘Claw? What claw?

I see only

a man digging the pit

in which he will die from his efforts.’

‘Do you mock me, Night?’ I say.

‘No, I do not mock you. I pity

you, for thinking that I do.’

And then Night turns its collar up,

strolling off into the Way.

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