Songbook II

[Dandeli]

.. I have had a recurring dream, where I walk from shade to shade, shadow to shadow.
The apple orchard is not my own, the sweetened gravesite of my poet.                   
                                 The trees are not my own, the leaves recoiling at my cold touch.
The birds are not my family, the butterflies fly without me.                                     

                                              My tea tastes like salt, and I have you know I stopped using sugar.                    
My song no longer feels like a salve.                                                                       
                                                        Letting that name trace your tongue feels bitter.
Seeing your grace beyond this graceless mirror feels bitter.                                   
                                                    Pottery feels like miserable piles of crumbly mud.

When did I forget how to sing?