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Final sprint, in claws poetry [ ]
- - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - by Călin Sămărghițan [cailean ]
2010-09-19
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To your long fingers
none of the seasons
will long any more.
There will be an empty page
and the only,
the eyes will cut again and again
the same shape of darkness.
Do you feel how cold
is the water of silence?
How close this evening
the oblivion's gazelles pass by
avoiding leopards?
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