May 2014
I dreamt of bonfires, the sound of a river
a crone caressing my hair;
I feared dying upon waking,
but neither flames, nor blood nor time are omens of death.
And so I can write this.
a crone caressing my hair;
I feared dying upon waking,
but neither flames, nor blood nor time are omens of death.
And so I can write this.
