Dorin Popa writes

THE WIND BLOWING INTO MY FROZEN HANDS
 
HOW MUCH OF WHAT I OWN IS MINE
and what do I see when I can’t see a thing

where was I when I was not inside myself
who talked to me when nobody would talk to me?

on what paths did I breathe hard
when all the ways were forbidden to me?

when things that exist looked upon me with hatred
what did I touch, whom did I touch?

where did my tears fall
and where was my place when I had no place?

who warmed me up when nobody would warm me up?
who loved me when nobody would love me?

when everything is cracked, dull and decayed
what else can you happily dream about?

I haven’t gathered anything and yet I have a lot
how much of what I own is mine?
 
 Falling Tears -- Andrea Broyles