for the old reasons.
The Muse doesn't answer.
Knock and she sends us brown bread,
wine that misses the thirst,
for countries that do not exist anymore.
We do not cross over
we do not cross
we do not ask who is living there
or the dead either.
The image of nothing is nothing.
I am hungry where the stars are
when the stars send down an old leaf.
And the man who has nowhere to go
remembers everything dead before him.
(prior credit to Montana Gothic)