There are voices but not the one I yearn to hear,
And yet even that voice, of which I speak,
I cannot bear.
When cheerful plans crumble through my fingertips,
The dust of their ashes remain.
To sweep or sleep,
To leave or brush away,
Such ponderings will not disappear.
Then to see, beneath the soot,
That happiness skipped away from you, to someone else,
Brings no heartfelt laughter.
While I’m pressed to polish that spot with my tears,
What use is there if no one can hear?
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