Sounds swirls around us,
tongues of silence speaks of love,
breathing, heavy, calm,
teardrops falling in tin-bowls, silent sobbing, sand sliding through fingers and hands, firewood cracks open,
red and green stars,
the dust is descending inside these walls, condensed thoughts, lumps in throats,
eyelashes clashing, hanging birch-wood-branches,
spirits
memories
dreams
symbiotic songs from the grapes on the hedges,
fire burning wild – wanting to reach out- wanting to touch,
strings being bound, untangled,
worms digging underneath our feet,
and even the air becomes a cloak of comfort.
Related Blogposts
”We donate our flesh to the idea” the Sister says. This sentence keeps rummaging inside me. Making my stomage crumple together. It seems so definitely to donate our flesh, my flesh to the idea. But then I tell myself that it is not just an idea. It is a hope,…
May women who cut people heads off who live freely whose fingers are stinky who wipe on their dresses their bloody nails be cursed Ambre.