Unspeakable sounds decimate the forests of my nights.
Ancestral inhabitants, friendly residents,
Flee towards other dark fogs of silence.
Acid rains of the unsaid
Drip through leaves and attacks trunks.
Deprive of its night time escapes,
The soul is surrounded by circular sounds.
Hoots from beyond the grave, whispers of stagnation,
Buried in years of attitudes,
And ignorant necessities,
Friendly, still, birds of truth,
Feed the body, carry it to distant undergrowth,
Softer, darker, deeper, where mosses will know
How to collect unacceptable sounds,
Where humus itself will find night nutriments,
And offer morning dew to exhausted animals.
Franck Joseph – ©FJ Jan 2022
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Notes & Silence 