There is no sound, fronds whisper in silence,
the images sink and disappear in unexplained words,
nothing or everything prepares for the moan.
Morning embraces white, evening embalms black,
mute as they lay bare, invite footprints on the corridor,
all they need is to say on their own blank verses.
It’s again the quiet before the windy, stormy night,
then clouds evanesce and lights pour inside,
the blank wall records the endless questions.
Let me read the hidden script, let me rest there,
count the exile years in the layers of red bricks,
dreams are alone, they multiply, they multiply.
A palm is pressed, the little secret turns into obsession,
taken to swirling of emotions, well-worn grooves,
days canoe on anecdotes, nights spread ashes on memories.
