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11585.
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THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF THE LIARS....
hidden beneath the layers of soil
and heaps and heaps of dry leaves
after several dry seasons
is the bullfrog,
it is kept there for good because when
it starts to croak
on such a deep, determined and truthful voice
our little world will be turning into
chaos...
perhaps out of respect for such a free creature
we promise to set it free
in due time
when the rain is heavy, when thunders roar,
when the flood comes and takes away everything
around this little place
this narrow river
so that when it croaks the truth about us
the rain and thunder may still conceal
what we fear the most
that shame of the future
this scandal,
this fall.
RIC S. BASTASA
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11586.
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the fallen tree and the chilren
all its leaves fell
the morning after the storm
and what you see
are the twigs which look
like the thin fingers of
old women widowed and
bowed by years of
patience and sacrifices
another strong wind pushed
it bending upon another tree
to lean upon
but its hands have finally
given up the struggle to
stand erect with dignity
the cleaner of the town
cut it into pieces to be
thrown in the smoky heap
of garbage far from the
place where children still
remember how climbing its
branches had been a
delight of their memories.
RIC S. BASTASA
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11587.
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the falling leaves
it is not the leaves you care about
but the falling
it is not that the trees have become leafless ribs
or that the thorns and scabs have become so visible
it is not
but the falling you want to know
how does falling fall how does this falling feel
the past that pains you
the present that you do not give space
the future that you refuse to dream
i see you falling falling and falling like the leaves
that you are seeing this summer afternoon
for whom you love
they leave like birds flying away from the lonely tunnel
where you have long resided
i see you hugging the fallen leaves
feeling what falling means
treasuring the failures unnecessarily
tonight i see no stars like you seeing none in the skies
black night silent night dead night
i got this last stick of this match
i light this cigarrette i sigh i live some more
i sleep i dream i have this candle still
that tomorrow i may begin to light
RIC S. BASTASA
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11588.
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the falling sands of time
the falling sands of time
spend themselves like the way you lose yourself
bit by bit to the floors of waste
but you have your hands
and your eyes do not fail to watch
you have the power in your mind
to turn back the sundial
and let the sands of time recover themselves
all for you
giving back that confidence
for rebirth
always always there are beginnings
your heart shall tell
RIC S. BASTASA
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