Rough Papers


Somewhere up at the head of the waterless river, where I was once or was I, where sleepy eyelids

were heavy with the shadow of ages waiting for the skies and the night lost its way, and I lost myself

in happy peace of an abandoned life, and faces of friends cold with death came back to the earth,

and we met, and the years of our memories with their hads joined were dancing below us, above

the abyss of all that was lost, in a colourful ring of tired moments, and the silence pressed its

forehead against the dawn, and a swarm of dragonflies, those visible essences of the sentinel, were

on guard at the final dream.