Rising to the Sun
Steeping noise, hollowed voices
A ghost through fog, dense roads
Barring the leaves fallen to their own crackle
Drenched surface
Nothing leaves footprints on an entrance
The gate creaks
Before a new dawn
In complete envelope
Of reclining hand in hand before fire
I sit and try to smile
More than usual
And play word games
Find adjectives no more, nouns unknown
It must be the shrill of winter
I am waiting for
Among thousand hundred naps
Where among those memories
Where among those paths
All those obvious talks, songs
A crescent moon of one's own continent
Grows out, fades in birches unspent
In quarters where birds won't long fly
All the worries left
Becoming a reason, cold and misty
A silhouette of hills, grey horizon
Limpid mesh of branches
Rough contours of rocks and
Relearning to climb.
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