Sonata for the Dead
(After Li Shangyin)
Crows pick at the rotting bones
of skeletons who gaze
with sightless eyes at the stars,
where our dreams abide,
but never come alive. Crows,
seeking somewhere to feed,
scatter like fallen leaves,
as wind swirls around them.
Crows know no better.
It’s simply an instinctive need.
The stars look down.
The crows don’t care.
They never look there.
The wind whistles among
the dying leaves.
It’s a melancholy song,
dissonant and redundant.
It will go on through eternity.
George Freek is a poet/playwright living in Illinois. poetry has appeared in numerous poetry journals and reviews, most recently The Ottawa Arts Review; Acumen; North of Oxford; The Lake; Triggerfish and Torrid Literature.