Thin-armed sentinels, guardians,
there's something human about the look of you,
or sense of you,
and you're tickling the corners of my mind,
some gift from the muses that's only half-formed.
What are you saying to me?
You stand there, pose, like a living statue,
let the wind sway you
like you're utterly passive -
and sentinels, guardians, they're servants of a ruler, right? -
and you're passive to the world
and you let storms bring you down,
and yet you stand with such deliberation,
your poses expressive like rhyme
yet I don't quite know what's being expressed.
You're so clear and stark against the air
and you form a teasing curtain
before the things you block.
Silent, still and silent,
you are not clothed with leaves the wind can rustle.
Serene? Impassive? Or angered by a world
that does not listen?
Was the silence a curse or a choice?
I cannot say.
And nor do you say. And nor <I> will <I> you say,
unless there is a radical world event.
But until then you wait,
Speaking without language,
Thin-armed, sentinels? guardians?...