Poetry

You to whom, I
am lost, the remaining pain
will fetch the grace-
poise and dignity of
ending.

The future lies in-
the halo of the hill, where
the blood was spilled last night.

A black spot on the sun was
enlarging. I spell your name
in a bird song, that croons
tirelessly in timeless dawn.

The moon drenched lake
wails for the boat not to come.