day unwraps in slow whispers and the wind is more lonely than am i.
the sky is a broken vase, little pathways of the sun, her strange loads, her happy voice.
the lilacs were our love song may swept into our hair and eyes little pieces of me scattering like breaking waves.
dipped in the magical ink of flowers the garden cries for its wilderness its withering of sky its blossoming of twig until you can’t see the sky and it becomes softly an impression, a fine mist of golds.
no song now, only the death of the wind and a new road that winds from the silver distances of the moon.
only a harbour where i rest for a while, a little boat bobbing where the waves lap, waiting for you...