With a quick stroke of brush the sky
above the landscape in November white
and black goes from grey clouds to bare
soft hue of blue, second stroke bringing
the Sun in cold gold; quick wonders shaping
perception bringing memories flooding
with a touch of the dead present, hovering
at the edge, just out of sight, in unmoored
silent memories of you gazing through same
windows this landscape on dormant days
like this, merging experience - the old
gaining from the young fragmented
in them, like the genes of extinct species
in our hybrid flesh among all the troubles
of the world and life we have made.
18.11.2025
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