Thesis:

I am pondering the soul of literature
Reading a country, a season, a culture
Without mentioning obvious time and space
Yet, one could sense from fragments, the place


I think it extends far beyond forensic, linguistics
And repeated symbols, flora, fauna, the stylistics:

I

‘The long sullen days, warm with familiar melancholy‘
‘The lone man strides across the loft streets of sheer folly’
‘Trivial, yet, out of place, in this pointlessly quickening race’
‘He vanishes into the pallid, gone without a trace.’


II

‘Blushing petals rush shyly to embrace’
‘Mirror of the river, and root of wizened trees’
‘All are quiet under the wind, as the poet reads.’
‘When he looks up, time has wasted away’
’Where, among nothing, is the way?‘

III

‘The earth is rigid with the chill of withering grace’
‘And the castle has put on a cloak of dark gray’
‘Against the window, the woman with a solemn face’
‘Sheds her soul as each yellow leaf falls and fades’

IV

‘In the yellow and red, the artist paints away’
‘So blue was the heavens, stunning and dazed’
‘It must have filled his whole being with light rays’
‘For in his image, forever swim brilliant cerulean waves’

Conclusion:

Nary a clear allusion to a self-evident time and space
But a story, a feeling, a living place, your mind shapes
As if awoken in a dream, in a void, and lost in a maze
The essence slowly forms and quickly finds the way
Till it builds itself true, but forever unable to be reached
As if unrequited lovers separated by a looking glass,
Ever to face each other, but never able to embrace.