twenty-two poems by david galler
The clouds sail past, the trees wave in the wind,
And I have been young who now are near the close,
Who have been kind and horrible by turns.
What is there in a life to learn except
Love and its passings, and should one learn these things,
How shall they profit him? Is it easier
Or harder then to die? And to continue
A drift of thoughts like these, shall it make one laugh
Or cry, smile at one’s protective opacity,
Weep at one’s onomastics and resilience?
One could do worse than watch those clouds sail past,
Trees wave in the wind. Is even that too much?