His life asked him his identity
I say it’s an unseasonal drop on the pane,
Just a vagabond bard,
A silent crooner
Sans a meaning.
Meaning is a frame
A frame which defines,
But a drop is a drop
From somewhere up to somewhere down,
From a vastness to a vastness
A drop, a bard, a nothing…
When has a no thing been any thing?
His life asked him his identity,
I say it’s any thing that’s your thing…
(On my way to office today, amidst weeping clouds, to be something)