Feeding The Past

I take me, 
in the whirlpool of bridges 
for a nonprofit. 

Gathering on rocks 
begins. Moonlight reads 
quickly, the faces. 

I would not give you 
my speech, my blindness. 
Become mute like the call of 
a mountain. 

A broken cry will save 
the poetry, the river, 
the sea. 

An old adage brings 
the solace. 
Somewhere a truth sings.