The Earth is
It does not
For which we
Nor the call
of a lark
It knows death
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
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
Silent and shallow rooted,
To voices that call us back to our
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.)