Voices come and voices go,
Scuffling sandals to-and-fro,
People scoff in my direction.
Filthy!

Ought this beggar be
Didst one ever wonder of me?
Behold, I sit. I know my place
Never shall I know a face.
Darkly surrounded, Light
warms my heart—

A voice cries out to me,
To me.
A voice, a face, I long to see.
I’m stirred myself, quite merrily.

A voice, unknown
I long to see
A voice to touch
the mud of me. I
Trust this voice oh, desperately
—speak my name

The voice directs
I follow.
The voice provides
I wallow
Washing, oh, the mud of me.
I long to see the voice.


© Daniel Schwamm, All Rights Reserved, 2015.


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