A minibus of huddled men, stops and then
Passes with faces stuck to the panes
No purpose, no complaints
The motionless image, carving nirvana from dead
Like the one sitting at the table, I believe, every morning
Eats waits and gets up, to go, too often
Like I am talking to myself,
The soldiers are a family to all
Is but a figure in my mind
If I had not walked the full moon
At night previous, if I had not dreamt
Not felt the togetherness, so different
Like I am falling asleep, it is all about belief
And it is not new, in any way.
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