Bleeding the past with its shades
lies a wound upon the dim day,
what was and was lost, what
hovered on the brink of life
and withered without being
born, and here too are
the abandoned with masks
of age and down turned lips
on their faces of wood, masks
carved by the long separating
years to hide their still sought
features; and unchanged
sees oneself among this, yet
unrecognizable to those
buried in the unreachable
years, so the little wisdom
left tells. Upon ruins wander
survivors who didn't survive,
blood bleeding from the wound
across the dark hours.
20.04.2025
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