Beloved (At The Edge Of The World)

We are the smell, the taste,   
the silence   
something too real   
to touch   
something too weak   
to collapse.   
  
  
Our throne,   
     at the edge   
       of the world.   
    
A small journey   
    over the rocks.   
  
Where we watch the buildings   
    spill over the   
       side of the cliff.   
  
  
Our world,   
     is an Indian Summer   
full of labyrnths   
     and vague riddles.     
Secrets painted   
     on the walls   
with stories   
     only we understand.   
  
  
Our house,   
     inherited from a poet.     
The ruins of a bomb,   
     from those terrible years.   
  
(1936-1939)   
  
  
Our heaven,   
     this ancient town. 

Invented by us

Invented for us.

Reviews

[Raven Starhawk]

Abstract and well formed. This speaks volumes in way of artistic skills.