Painted in AutumnEmpty,Painted in Autumnin Poems
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in this house of smashed windows,
she lies on the old, pine floor
and half-listens to the lullaby
weaved by the endless sorrow.
All her tears are hanging in the air,
just like pearls
and the silence wraps her tightly
like a veil.
painted in the blue and gold
of the late autumn afternoon.
There, she stays,
trapped in the glitter
of the spider webs and mist,
shined by the ailing sun.
but does she lives or has she ever lived,
no one knows.
Crucified by dreams,
this cracked china doll is waiting
for the tenebrous night to fall.
Never Place In the place where dreams forget about the dreamer and run fast and free in the velveteen dusk… In the open, vast fields of wild thyme and sage and white lilies of the dead, thickly spread... There, whenever it is convenient, he drops by.Never Placein Prose
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Wrapped in the shroud of mist and dark cloak weaved of past and endless sorrow, he comes to think, to mourn and to sleep, using those short, stuck moments when all yesterdays are spent and all tomorrows are just a notion. There, when rested, he also tends his wild garden: polishing the stones and pawing a path toward the citadel on hill, neatly arranging the skulls and the bleached bones.
Always in the distance stands that old ruin, glimmering almost like a mirage. It is so old that, in fact, it has never been new, or even built. It is overgrown with wild roses and thorns peering through the broken walls, with the small brown nightingales and plump, shabby owls, nesting inside. There is a lot of moss covering the loose stones