Listening diary: Dry ponds

How many afternoons, I peeked into your waters…
to refresh this dark soul…
lack of dreams…

Muddy waters, which I presumed to be transparent…
waters depleted by bitter subterfuge
of that shadow with voice…

But I saw you blue, clear, early, fresh,
full of virtues and light…
but no, you were just a watered pond,
full of envy and backlight…

It’s those dry ponds,
where we go…
in bliss and on the cross…

It’s those barren ponds,
that will never reflect your concern again…