The poem hunter 

By the end of some days I hunt words for you. Small gifts at the parting of the day. Not unlike the occasional dead bird made as a peace offering from the pet cat.

So I look for poems. I look for verses or passages. I look for pages in between the binds of books. I look and seek and find nothing but plastic in this city. People do not read here. People buy, and wear, and flaunt. But they do not be. People look but don’t see. People hear but don’t listen. People talk but do not speak. People here are so busy trying to be someone else that they are nobody I recognise.

I wanted a poem. One poem. It doesn’t seem too much to ask of this world but some days you have a muse and no name for her. It occurs to me then to look at you. And I remember that you do not need to read poems to a woman who moves like God’s voice across the water.

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