Out of the mist of silence, strangers emerge, slowly fading into the midday light
Out of the mist of silence, strangers emerge, slowly fading into the midday light
their steps rustle petals, and the flower-filled street stirs like an old dream.
I let my thoughts drift, white, like a fluff of feather among tender shadows,
I hear how the voices of passersby become the scent of apricots – then oblivion erases them.
A blackbird ignites the air, a red syllable on the staff of the gentle wind,
the bowl of fruit glistens – a round promise that the present can be sweet.
Emerald butterflies patrol the wing of midday, soldiers in an empire of chlorophyll,
between their flutter and my heart only a sigh seeks its nest.
A wave of jasmine rises; time breathes like a child asleep at the breast,
and the street flows on, shining with smiles that quietly fade away.
Every onlooker carries stars in their eyes like coins of longing –
they toss them into the distance, hoping the echo will buy another moment.
At the edge of thought, the pink hummingbird stops the seconds between its wings,
gifting me a fragile silence, translucent like glass still too warm.
A yellow balloon rises silently and writes unfinished sentences in the sky,
I read them within, forget them outwardly, turn back to remain.
And yet, each passerby brings a moon reflection, a trace of vapor,
I let it pass through me, flow onward, erase me just a little.
Thus I weave my flow, a river that forgets itself at every bend,
and in the soft banks, I hide an unspoken name, ready to fall asleep again.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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