TO P

This June night, these

White Nights of summer hours,

dark like those

of autumn, here stand

black silhuettes against

darkest blue;

here we with words

and fears

dig graves for dreams.

There is a scent of the autumn

in the breeze that rustles

the boughs and the mind, of withering

and fading of life,

amidst the bursting life of June

lost in the darkness too great.

Part of the future that

was to be

shall not see the morning come.

Lesser beings will

face the rising disk of the Sun

with fainter hopes

and greater pain.

Here we give birth to them

from our skin.

04.06.2019