when the silence of leaves comes to me I dream of continents of clouds, yes, don't be surprised I dream for Grandma too, she never saw them not today, not tomorrow, but sometimes, who knows, when my hands would be continents for you I'll lend you my skin just for a moment, just long enough to feel it lift me up and I'll jump off it like on a trampoline back into my own burrow - the salty, marine wonder of blinking thoughts without orbit
poetry, this dear wasting like an unheard music, the dissolving mint of dreaming in Nichita's horses' mane all day long god seems to be combing the clouds that overflow in cascade, always ruffled, like the shadows of thoughts
Nichita refferes to Nichita Stanescu, a Romanian poet, one of my favorites