Of the Light

/, Blesok no. 47/Of the Light

Of the Light

You Let the Words
Bright Tenderness
А Dream Entangled My Reality
I Ran
I Dream that I Disappear
The Word Is Our Destiny Deserved
Sorceries and Witchcraft
Remember

I ran
with all my force and wildness
and everything rushed
by
I could not take it
And then
In the middle of the storm
a small cloud
from a depth
quite close
touched me, barely
With an echo of a whisper
And everything calmed down
Tranquil joy
took me
It just happened
To be quiet for a while

AuthorElizabeta Drakulovska
2018-08-21T17:23:16+00:00 April 16th, 2006|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 47|0 Comments