Dan Enache Poet Free verse

the blue shore

the blue shore

in the room among newspapers come from distant regions of light,
like a gentle animal like a wonderful man you love yourself with sweet sadness,
you sit on the edge of the bed with palms resting on white knees,
or untied from birth and from death you caress your pumice-stone cheek.
until the sun passes to the other side like a golden bird,
beside the photograph of the happy child who smiles forever young always,
who pees on a blue shore beneath the gleaming sapphire sky,
then everything returns regroups as in a hot magical fog.
in which things remake themselves among the obscure plantations of chance,
and beside a woman carefully hangs out the clothes of the drowned beloved,
and speaks with them she who still searches for you in her memories,
in the black bones of the butterfly that flies through the garden of shadows.
and while you wander through the mists of a powerful masculinity,
past the forgotten shovels on the fresh mound of the small mole,
or you watch the swaying of the two stakes driven into the riverbank,
or you lie down on the ground and the wind covers your face with dry leaves.
brought from who knows where from the distant forests of the north,
a great sadness brings back the lunar landscape of her tired shoulders,
and there are no more words and her whispers are fine things,
that settle everywhere filling the silence split by the passing train.
her whispers are the water gathered over the traces of your deep soles,
after the last rain that washed the stones of the mountain road,
but a simple turn of a key is enough for you to hear clearly,
the slow flowing of time past your socks moistened with dew.
or the heavy breathing of roots growing beneath the black earth,
and again you dream of the blue shore at the end of the silver river,
on which we ruminate the fairy-like abandonment like a sweet memory,
the meeting on the shore that always comes in our evening dreams.
where the child pees smiling in the old frameless photograph,
and the woman speaks gently with the dry clothes of the one who left,
in the hot fog where everything remakes itself as in a magical ritual,
on that blue shore where time flows like honey through dreams.
and you sit on the edge of the bed with palms on white knees,
among newspapers come from distant regions with stories from long ago,
like a wonderful man dreaming of the blue shore from childhood,
where the simple happiness of the child floats like a paper boat.
on the river that flows through your memories like a stream of light,
and the woman hangs out the clothes speaking with them in the warm evening silence,
searching for you in the bones of the butterfly that flies through the garden of shadows,
on the blue shore where we ruminate the fairy-like abandonment from the dream.

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