You think that you,

form clouds from fog

and paint the forests green.

You think me lost,

inside your song

as unformed harmonics

drown, within my throat

and reeds split

upon my tongue.

But you are wrong

and still I sing,

and though you say,

my life, is but a whisper

in the age of mountains,

I am here.

I am here.

© DeJ. June 2010