I can’t describe it
with eyes open or closed
(in itself) it seems red-white-gold
a warm fire in winter
a piece of cloth
that brings heat and strikes spark
the flint of stone in fields of snow
and the negative of weather
the identity of four still less than zero
a reindeer pulling a sleigh
leaves traces in dream
-or-the dream tracing in tracks the snow
an opposite at large
His shirt balloons in wind
and my face recedes
newborn (in him) a piece of now
now this distance, separation
a thousand miles in one heart
Purple
Purple
Domestic Blues
Brother World
A Quotidian Morning, When
Sunday in Montsouris Park
The Urban Life
Melancholia eterna
Domestic Blues
Brother World
A Quotidian Morning, When
Sunday in Montsouris Park
The Urban Life
Melancholia eterna
AuthorLiljana Dirjan