[39] Unremorseful (After Lu Yu), George Freek

The sky is poised for snow.
As the wind shakes
the branches, I rearrange
my pipe’s dead ashes.
I wait for spring
and its resurging hopes.
The moon is a question mark,
lost in a black sea.
As I sip my cold tea,
and watch a tiny bug crawl
up my cracked wall,
I’m surrounded by ghosts.
They are like vultures,
arriving from I don’t
where. It seems unfair.
I feel too helpless
to fight my past,
and I’m too old to care.

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