Orphan Smile    How hard it is for the stars to weave a story.    It breaks through the wall and chain,  and then in turn, with eyes closed.    Words filter into dark rooms,  unnoticeably, to the tune of the evening.    It is not unexpected, nor is it striped,  wood pencils sketch grey and grey sky.    Each strum is a haze that thins and fades,  the one who sings with all the heart  for a while, is now trapped in the web of memory.    Each mirror reflects the orphan smile,  what remains is the rising smoke of the pyres.      Ancient Palms    We must learn to read, to hold them ever  among the corn fields of the golden year.    Before our eyes, the deep unique shadows  take me up…

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