Two little blackbirds
part ways forever
and nobody bothers why,

the sun sheds a tear
just before she sets
and philosophers do not
even care,

those keyboard sages
from the east and west,
where snow falls
and summer is a thing,
they won't ask why.

It's only I who seems
to care,
to worry why
the earthworm dies
without a marked grave.

It's only I who seems
to bother,
why the rain chose
not to fall today,
and the stars refused
to twinkle for the children;

No body asks why
the grave was cold
and why the flowers died
in my hands.

They just assumed,
I know they did;
they always do,
But I burdened myself
with the whys
and got a silent wind
for an answer.