I still think
Heaven is a small
Town with bright
Blue eyes and the
Sound of a child's
Laugher—
That it unknots
The brows of even
The most weary of
Philosophers.
I still think
Heaven is a small
Garden encrusted with
White feathers and
The west-wound winds
Coming from the Atlantic.
An old harbor—Vladivostok—
Spelled perfectly,
Abandoned by
Knaves and all the carnage they left,
Or Ceasaria:
Dry bed of luminous ruins.
I imagine You beckoning us:
"Don't be afraid, come!"—
Revealing pockets of
Nature only you would have
The courage to call
Beautiful.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 7:00 AM UTC
I still think
Heaven is a small
Town with bright
Blue eyes and the
Sound of a child's
Laugher—
That it unknots
The brows of even
The most weary of
Philosophers.
I still think
Heaven is a small
Garden encrusted with
White feathers and
The west-wound winds
Coming from the Atlantic.
An old harbor—Vladivostok—
Spelled perfectly,
Abandoned by
Knaves and all the carnage they left,
Or Ceasaria:
Dry bed of luminous ruins.
I imagine You beckoning us:
"Don't be afraid, come!"—
Revealing pockets of
Nature only you would have
The courage to call
Beautiful.
