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A Solitary Retreat
I take an unhurriedly walk
through the virgin forest
with paths fully covered with brittle leaves,
its trees emit mournful laments
to protest its anguishing fate until spring arrives
and transforms their dullness
into a liveliness loved by a novelist;
and walking farther, I spot a red-tailed hawk
that built his nest amid the branches of a willow...
should he return late, the cry for hunger will grow!
Nothing thrilling is found in a barren forest
when its beauty faded without the song of the larks
when they frequented the fields of a bountiful harvest,
I sit by the small lake without the floating ducks,
they shivered into the cold water and departed at early sunset,
leaving the drama on the poet's perplexed face;
his narrative would have seemed real and deserving of praise...
had he not embellished it with an unconvincing verse!
I take a long stroll
in a forest with a nakedness that frightens,
there are no intriguing discoveries;
those urban noises aren't too distant from the ears,
the minds, and the thoughts of the observers;
isn't tranquility and pensiveness that call
all for solitude and the dreary images they extoll?
Shouldn't they depress even if they are as realistic
as the life of a derelict
clothed with cheap garments, but has a noble spirit?
Copyright ©
Andrew Crisci
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