22 of us, in a circle, in a beautiful and utterly meaningless hour of cultural understanding

and we feel so closed. and so enlightened.

it was as if we were holding candles in a cave.

and, drunk with our harmony, our understanding, and the climax of our knowledge

of each other

of our letters

of our true colors and our cobwebs.

we were, for once, one: in language and in spirit and in desire to know the other.

but we were, here, alone and futile,

our 22 nothing to the world.

and though the windows remained open,

the clouds refused our words

we were singing birds

up in the trees too high to hear,

too high to care,

and our tiny fires burned together

in a bonfire's melody

our thoughts harmonizing, humming

in silent, rushing wind

and we were one.

but in that moment, in that room,

i knew our words were doomed--

we were too far, too high, too real

they'll see our reflections in a thousand years

like stars, old light

that died out

years and centuries ago,

and then they'll know.

but here, and now, we are so closed.