Picking its warmth from the midday sun.
And the young leaves folding out from the stalk,
Dull already after a day of evolution.
The din of men and their trucks cutting through the passerine's songs and the joys of children nearby,
Silencing the cicadas and the whimsical cows on the hill opposite.
All the while the friends bake themselves,
Trying to work their own sense -
The soul and connections and everything like that;
Their own hostilities manifesting in waves of silence
that crash silently against the common shore,
Sweeping up its own inferences;
A pulsating madness to the spectators.
The present proximity and the distant past
- an unsettling premonition -
It drives them insane.
The most malicious moment gets another birth.
The lone strife all over again.
We forget today, oh recurrent impulses.
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