When two hands tug
at a thin, worn string,
sometime it’s bound to snap.
After weekends, we tie it up again,
until the growing knot itself
becomes the breaking point.
Then something snaps forever.
Dammed up rivers stay quiet
as long as they have streams to flow
but when the storms come,
the overflow can be so
that even thick concrete comes crashing,
unleashing torrents unimagined heretofore.
Strings snap, but dams do more.
Have I touched your life,
has the wind from the mountain of my soul
rustled through your leaves
like mayas on a ledge
moving like rhythmical mannequins,
have I rested your tired eyes?
After the first torrent
amidst a sky foreboding further ill,
has my chirping chipped the stillness—
Have I given?