filou

more dedication than eulogy

does the black top hat tame only his curls

so thick and black and wild

you might just wonder, as you descry

him strolling down the alley way,

in an all too pensive mood.

in a different light, nocturnally, they could be gray

as he mumbles riddled wisdoms

frequently witnessing grave pains adorned

with long-lost loves of distant pasts.

but then his head turns back at you

in almost playful revelation

and you catch a glimpse of the coquettish probes

with which he secretly investigates

the law of time – to you abundantly abound –

and to him redundantly bound at best.

if now you think a clown he could be

with painted smiles of will and chance

you will discover soon, my friend – as i did one fine day –

that no, his audience isn’t comprised of fools

who think so lightly of the world

but rather those enchanted by the silent

flirt that roams the top of the trees

in fall and spring and infinitely

as the only sly witness and secret lover

of the ever-fleeting wind

without which, this man just seems to know,

all comes and goes and starts anew.