They ride the good dragon-cloud towards warm light
While wistful wind was a wrongdoer on the hollow hill
Wrapped woven from the wounds and wrath`s night,
The wood will wear white woolly witness of the windmill.
Hoarfrost hitch-hikes and hoists with hoarse hood,
Drumming beat of hobble of the army`s fatal feet,
Far away from the glow-worms of their childhood;
Friends fumble the glassware where they might meet.
Falteringly frogs of fancy jump towards the lake’s glass;
Orphan souls sit on the steps of hope in winter`s time
They scrutinize the frozen sky of hope to find the rhyme
Of the verse from the other side they want to happily pass.
Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa