I have it mastered now
I tell myself - and laugh
a happy laugh but ne’er do tell -
the secret’s safe with me
I say – and yet –
Don’t tell the bear or bees
of what I’ve done -
they love to talk
Don’t tell the birds
or the bards who ballads
lead – they toss it back
and forth as if a prize
Don’t tell the road the children
walk upon – their footprint shouts
so loud that the entire village
knows – or so it seems – and then
they start reliving through their dreams
Don’t tell the stars- they’ll tell the sun –
and a secret’s something known by one
the sun will likely tell the clouds
and the thunder and the lightning –
if they come
Don’t tell the cliff, the rocks or valley –
the lake or winding stream -
the creek will leak to water’s edge
the frog will tell the rain
Don’t tell the snow or mountain-top -
the tourist or the tool – the
physician or the novelist
the villager – the fool
No-one keeps a secret
(once it’s passed on down the line)
it becomes a murmur –
and into gossip it will grow –
for only one can keep a secret –
don’t you know?
sensualism 