We let these moments pass us by:
The simple gust, the breeze of dust.
As if the air were empty space,
A different and inhuman place.
Inhale like every other time:
That breath was once in Sappho’s lungs,
In fibres rolled in ancient scrolls,
And mixed with Dreamtime songs and chants.
And Lorca’s final, sand-filled gasp
Is falling now as Autumn rain.
And Rosa’s blood from Landwehr ditch,
Is in the beat of every heart.
We miss the air, as air flows by.
The drops of Lethe have filled our sighs.