Editor: Strider Marcus Jones
The poet
A flock of sheep crosses the orchard, mashing golden overripe plums under their hooves. It smells like grandma's old hearth boiling jams. Ahead of me, a convoy of villagers meanders on the path without horizon, waking the ancestral dust from its numbness. Some people complain about the hard times, some say jokes. They know a lot about all things, and next to nothing about the man they follow on the last road, except that he roamed the hills and wrote poems...
the leaves no longer fall
at the poet's house –
excavators
Shadows
The hand that used to rest on my shoulder, no longer opens the door. No one waters the flowers and dreams anymore...Even this fuliginous cloud spreads its shadow and moves on. How desolate our walnut tree swing is! Now and then only a snail swings, or this fog, which can’t be waltzed away by wind. Some twigs snap under imaginary steps, or maybe not. I watch obsessively the barren land, letting only a shadow rise. Always the same...
deep mist –
the bitter taste
of aerial roots
Fragility
The inclement weather has ruined my plans of mountain hiking. The path turned muddy. Wet birds watch me sliding towards the yellow water while trying to get hold of branches. The nenuphars make place for me. Daylight only flows into the stork's eggs. Perhaps, it’s not by chance that I’am here. I could find out how long it takes for indifference to become concern. People pass by, engrossed in their cell phones.
falling stars –
equally vulnerable
the sky and man
Lavana Kray
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