From the Pocket of a Dream
A slowly falling dusk.
No sound of the usually whispering water
from the distance.
One cry of a dying bird.
And nothing more, nothing more.
a tired shadow of a man with the hands in his hair
and a carved line on his forhead.
A silvery circle of the moon.
Suddenly: a groan.
And nothing more.
and the pale light of the moon through a deserted field.
An errant bat among the branches.
One wait, all humid of tears.
it seemed like that night
even the grass bursted out sobbing.
© Eclipse 1979 (From my first poetry corpus “The Dormant Star”)
Image by My Opera