I have almost stopped singing.
\nWords don\u2019t come to me.
\nMy fingers are cold,
\ncolder than stone.
\nI wonder what will become of me.
\nI stand waiting
\nand go with the wind.
\nMy clothes do not warm me.
\nArches and porticos offer no shelter.<\/p>\n
What direction to follow?
\nI envy the potter,
\nhis strong hands,
\nthe wetness of his clay,
\nthe curve of his joy.
\nOr the painter with his windows,
\nhis infinite colors,
\nthe palette of his eyes,
\nmixing and stirring.
\nOr the philosopher
\nwith his text,
\nhis boundless logic,
\nhis structures of order.<\/p>\n
I exist in shadow,
\nthe nuance of phrase,
\na terrible longing.
\nBut the world does not cease.
\nIt invites me,
\nwhatever my mood,
\nlike a friend,
\nwho will listen
\neven to silence.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I have almost stopped singing. Words don\u2019t come to me. My fingers are cold, colder than stone. I wonder what will become of me. I…<\/p>\n