Island
of course there are
islands in the sky.
and of course, we will die
i want my island
here , on earth,
for the time
we are given
maybe not an island
but a home
in the waste land
a wing of you
touching my sleep,
my worn face
a simple place
to be quiet
and warm
a breath of you
to ease my fear
and i know
more is not
to give or to take:
we need to walk
and to survive,
a washing machine,
maybe a nurse
but i want a garden
where i can grow peace
and flowers, strawberries
and salad of course.
all life was salad,
all thoughts are.
it is not the words
I can eat.
it is not ideas
I can drink.
it is not the past
when i say now.
It is not now
when you say past.
and then, you
will not live
by the sun alone
you need your hands
as i need mine.
they may rest
in each other
when the time is right.
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