Writing a poem
under the moon
Contemplating
on a wooden chair
The silky curtains
spread their wings.
I hear a voice
your call at night
echoing on walls
I leave the ink
and run down
over the meadows
over the fields
and the moon
lightens my path.
The woods is dark
but does not halt
my rush toward you
I run for a while
I run for years.
In your room
is a coffin inside
on top of it are flowers
a bouquet of liliac lilies
I don't hear your voice
anymore. It is dark.
I sit by there for years.
It took centuries
to reach you
and seconds
to love you.
The moon on the hill
is standing still.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 4:03 PM UTC
Writing a poem
under the moon
Contemplating
on a wooden chair
The silky curtains
spread their wings.
I hear a voice
your call at night
echoing on walls
I leave the ink
and run down
over the meadows
over the fields
and the moon
lightens my path.
The woods is dark
but does not halt
my rush toward you
I run for a while
I run for years.
In your room
is a coffin inside
on top of it are flowers
a bouquet of liliac lilies
I don't hear your voice
anymore. It is dark.
I sit by there for years.
It took centuries
to reach you
and seconds
to love you.
The moon on the hill
is standing still.
