On a sunny spring afternoon
you stand under a pale blue sky
hang with scattered clouds
from some old Flemish painting,
biting breeze coming as waves
over the lengthening shadows;
warmth and cold alternating,
you float on the tide of hours
like the late summer waters
carried you to past sunset,
and now drifting towards
evening on words echoing
those of a long dead youth
from whose verses you brought
enough feeling to write
these lines, spirit lacking
in your withered inner
abode in these barren days.
30.-31.03.2026
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