the late afternoon sun is a cartload of light,
its wheels rolling toward the horizon.
every day it pushes a cargo of years
over the western mountains,

it's a cart that can never turn back.
at night all along the riverbank
the water reflects the moonlight's pale skin
the long grasses stoop to drink

and a breeze from an old sepia photograph
hangs behind the clouds, in a sky
i have never seen from a room
where i have never been

the wounds of time heal slowly
if they heal at all ... some say
pain proves that we age in time
as the kite string in our hands
proves that kites are snatched away by the sky

if my eyes could stop gazing
mournfully from the mirror
louder than a rifle shot
softer than the twilight sun

if you could cross the ditch within yourself
if you could reach the other side
pushing a cartload of light
your tears of regret falling like hail
then and only then could you finally claim your soul