A wooden dream. The white fog and black river.
Sadness goes 'round from one hut to another.
No sound at all. Even dogs being silent.
The speechless wind - like a willow-shaped ghost.
And then this willow, that burden that bends her,
Burden of life over indolent river.
Another god falls there into oblivion.
The universe - lurking over the fence.
Lightly and airily, heavily, grimly.
Thunder - the one of no sound and no power -
Lightens the blurred, sleepy brinks of the village.
The run. The silkness. Soft touch of the night.
And - with illusions of this feral twilight -
I hear the voices, some entangled moaning.
No, 'tis not moaning: the stars in the distance
Through rotten fence into village distill.
9th of June 2013