At The Border Of Paradise

It’s strange

that green valleys are still here

as if happiness slept in them

and shady streams

we once knew for sure

existed

and that there still are roofs

under which small children sleep

filling the house with a different silence.

It’s strange

that clouds here still follow the sun

like gliding birds

and that there still is simple human goodness

besides what aspires upwards

that pure music stands at the door

which suddenly seems like a palace portico

It’s strange

that we still

want so much to love and cry