sometimes I can’t speak to you
(but the poet can)
when words fall on deaf ears,
I am mute despite my screaming,
that all these years
what you hear you only heard in song,
so you wonder why I keep on talking,
and the truth is, it’s just for me,
because we love to hear ourselves
in all the things we like to say,
that no matter who it is who sings or speaks
their clutter to the world,
their clutter is their own,
so I can hear you, too, or so I think
(but only when the prophet makes me hear)
what I have heard within us both:
inside there is a prophet and a lyre.

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