
Scattered in our parks
life, dying and decaying—
little white petals.

Scattered in our parks
life, dying and decaying—
little white petals.

Chamber of the dead;
while life bustles overhead,
entomb old secrets.

The horizon’s bright:
my flight is a metaphor;
adventurer’s life.

Walking by a park;
above, the motorway roars—
below, some leaves crunch.