Making a poem
of rainy days,
I waited behind
the closed window,
observing the clouds’
blear tracks to west,
an endless grey movement,
causing heavy fragrant winds.
A large river of clouds
rolling to the edge
of the horizon,
a deep melody,
deep like water
and moonless nights,
born in obscurity.
And I wait the soaring
hours of light,
to escape on
transparent pathes
from a world of
a patient born sorrow.
Hope is my friend.
Hope, lend me your hand
and your bark to row away
on the cloudy sea …
I could hardly resist
like a stony island
formed by roughness
and glowing knives.
My bottom is
slowly sinking sand.
Winds rot my thin top,
but I speak to the storms,
a solitary island
on a rainy day.
© Inge Hornisch
Toutes les droites appartiennent à son auteur Il a été publié sur e-Stories.org par la demande de Inge Offermann.
Publié sur e-Stories.org sur 09.07.2009.
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