Between the beginning and end is all very still.
No rushing stream, no snowflake will combine
with defiant streams.
at the crossing in the fog is a form
them the attention turns inward. In the forest
- close to the edge of town - because we hear a cry.
No heart that stirs, not tower clock strikes,
not a single bird laughed loudly in the morning.
wakes No bud, in the hour before the first night
mild self-stimulate.
And on all these routes from north to south
is a glimmer of brittle, dark asphalt.
My hands are cold, but I tremble not
burns because at the end of the tunnel timid light.
(* g)
(* g)
© Simone wedge
0 comments:
Post a Comment