How Small We Are, How Insignificant. Poem by RIC BASTASA

a dot is a runner
making a line, and it ends
it rests for a while, it is there
where our silence lies,
after a night, it runs again
the whole day i suppose,
and that is where our life
moves on,
it runs and stops and runs,
to make a figure, a landscape,
and that is where we enter,
as we ourselves make the doors,
the exits, the bridges, and pools,
and rivers,
as we go along this running,
when we stop, when we are so silent,
we go back to this life of a dot,
how small we are, how insignificant.