.jpg)
.jpg)
Otiosity
A flock of sheep crosses the orchard, mashing golden overripe
plums under their hooves. It smells like grandma's old hearth
boiling jams. Ahead of me, a convoy of villagers meanders
steadily on the horizonless path, waking the ancestral dust from
its slumber. Some people complain about the hard times, some
say jokes. They know a lot about all things, and next to nothing
about the man they follow on the last road, except that he used
to roam the hills and wrote poems...
the leaves no longer fall
at the poet's house –
excavators
Niciun comentariu:
Trimiteți un comentariu