Публикувано от: bogpan | януари 11, 2018

Carve

I wonder what present,
what future

to predict to you, me
to you, with hands of leaves,
with thoughts, lost into the torn
canvas of someone else’s
words,
with a gait of a wave…
A silence buries the hours
and the alders remain
candles.
Yes, the homes are
never enough.
And there’s none whom
to pray to among the dry
flowers speechless
but unique.
And may the wind
spin you
through clefts of granite.
With all my tenderness –
into fall of the leaves.
Carve

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Responses

  1. Marvelous poem! No prediction, yet a beautiful wish „And may the wind/spin you/through clefts of granite.With all my tenderness –into fall of the leaves.“ …. „When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang..“ W. S. …Always a pleasure to read your poems!

  2. Amazing words from an incredible reader! It is a great pleasure to read your comments. You are always welcome on this path.


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