Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Flavia Cosma

The road stays, sated, white,
Stretched out, facing the sky.
Rare snowflakes slowly descend.
The branch keeps mum,
A nest laid bare.
The river lifts its shirt at the shores,
Runs higher and higher on its fleet feet,
Runs hurriedly with the fish and the shadows.
Trice slips the footstep
On snow-hidden ice;
Mirrors slyly gleam beneath the flimsy cover;
The horizon teems with eyes and snares,
We christen each other with high reverence,
We want the recollection of who it is we are
To carry us forward.

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