There are so many things to say.

In the harsh light of some mornings, when my thoughts are still in a nocturne, there are so many things I know to say.
I will explain, but they are hidden.
I will explain, but they are echoes of memory no longer remembered.
They are coloured in moonlight, tucked away in some thousand parallel dreams.
I will explain.
They are on a mountain beneath the shadow of a pine tree.
They are the python’s suffering, the running river’s song.
They are in the eyes of a wild deer, ambushed, afraid.
I will explain.
They speak in the rain, ever so quietly, so gently, but nobody hears.
They are bitter and bleak to the lonesome wayfarer accompanying the wind.
They are littered on an old path denuned by time of its sacred distinction.
I will explain.
They are kismet when the trees shrivel and weep.
They are behind the moon, east of the gate.
They are so many wordless things to say.

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