The Voices
I collect eyes. Burnt ones.
Of the last summer.
Arms chopped off.
By a tide of sand.
Reflections of uncollected water.
You, hunter of flowers…
Oh, wharves!
Oh, sea goings!
Winds in the sails of the white ships.
High wings.
The swelter of August swallowed you.
But today it’s September and the oval autumn.
And your voices I hear…
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2011
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