The world does not come to its own rescue.
There are tears only dogs can hear, thick planetary sobs.
Meantime in the streets you see the troublemakers, loudmouthed, shifty, exclaiming all manner of things.
Everyone has a tinge of death under his coat.
Lately I have received letters from strangers. They read what I post on the internet.
A man from Africa writes that his wife died young & had a terrible disability. Now, alone, he is nearly homeless.
What use, the alien flowers? We can still weep in the public gardens.
I used to go to the Botanical park in Helsinki. Once, it was owned by the Czar of Russia. No tears were allowed there in the old days. But I would weep among the flowers.
Blindly the wilful soul asks for hope.
& the earth sends us tears, even under the garden’s grillwork gate.
Planet of the Blind 
And what about me? An hour was taken from me, and by the time it is returned, it will be far too late.
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Thanks for acknowledging the pervasive tinge of death. So often it is masked by cheap perfumery.
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