All because of a rose planted in the wrong place
A young man the gardener more than
Losing face he loses his life
Praising both the cautious and the bold
In the event the rose does what all roses do
It produces first the thorn and then the bloom
Translate this into cities and those that live there
Translate it into what the human condition knows of things invisible
My nose is not bleeding it is missing
As if it were not enough my eyes are nowhere to be found
My limbs those too are missing
Yesterday what I was able to say today remains unsaid
But look at my head still in place are my ears
It seems my ears have not lost their listening
Ears like this they hear better in a crowd
A hearing so good they can hear
Forming into dust the birth sound
Listening to the loudest and quietest of what we fear
Such a pair of ears hears the world going underground
An ear re-constructing itself shaping itself into a listening ear
My ear is against the door and behind it what do I hear
I hear the cotton wool in the world’s ears

Ronald Rae