Malaise

The clouds above terrible brightness,

pure white light hurting my eyes.

All around, silence. The birds

have done their duty for their species,

the songs of procreation

and territory no use now.

Soon there will be more rain,

on this landscape soaked with

water. The harvest will be bad;

but then, the fields closest lie fallow,

and I will be soon away, like

the birds migrating, to some

place where shadows will be

even longer, silence more deafening.

20.07.2017