death arrives to feelingfulness,
all who wish to forget.
sometimes the way seeking the cold
from which the sun lifts in its hands
the heat pressed against
the mad and the strife-torn heart
affords nothingness still.
pain is etched in stone— all for no one
to hear, but he who is frozen beside
the petrified willow like a brook
unthawed from the ice of its call.
at the brink of it watch all birds,
strings, petals of days and the leap
without any sign of swelter from
a day's stridence.
how do they fit through the seam
of this river— altogether in riverrun
and aching, wind is full and stringent,
with its figure white in moon,
even whiter with hand-woven quiet.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 5:23 AM UTC
death arrives to feelingfulness,
all who wish to forget.
sometimes the way seeking the cold
from which the sun lifts in its hands
the heat pressed against
the mad and the strife-torn heart
affords nothingness still.
pain is etched in stone— all for no one
to hear, but he who is frozen beside
the petrified willow like a brook
unthawed from the ice of its call.
at the brink of it watch all birds,
strings, petals of days and the leap
without any sign of swelter from
a day's stridence.
how do they fit through the seam
of this river— altogether in riverrun
and aching, wind is full and stringent,
with its figure white in moon,
even whiter with hand-woven quiet.
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