Feeding The Past

I take me,
in the whirlpool of bridges
for a nonprofit.
 
Gathering on rocks
begins. Moonlight reads
quickly, the faces.
 
I would not give you
my speech, my blindness.
Become mute like the call of
a mountain.
 
A broken cry will save
the poetry, the river,
the sea.
 
An old adage brings
the solace.
Somewhere a truth sings.