Harold Lorin


The Earth is not sad.

It does not mourn

Does not remember

Last year’s fruit

For which we grieve.


Does not regard the

Sparrow’s fall

Nor the call of a lark

Which tempts us.


It knows death without sin.

Birth without hope.

Imposes rules.

Permits some variations.

Endures especially the sadness

That we bring to the land.





What I had wanted,

Once we had come so far.

Was to go to the forest

And in that air that is nowhere more sweet

To forget our names and our faces.


There to defy defining voices

Which tell us who we are.

In that forest to be the unnamed pines.

Silent and shallow rooted, un-answering

To voices that call us back to our places

That call us back to our names.


Harold Lorin has published numerous books and articles in Computer Technology and Science.  He lives primarily in New York City and  travels extensively for work and pleasure.  Fiction has been published on line at seismicfish.com and nicestories.com. Poetry at bluehouse.com (August and October 2004) and poeticdiversity.com (November 2004.)

Contact Harold Lorin



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