Telling where the wind comes from
open a story.

Telling where the wind goes
end a story.

These eager pencils
Come to a stop
.. only.. when the stars high over
Come to a stop.

Out of cabalistic to-morrows
Come cryptic babies calling life
A strong and a lovely thing.
I have seen neither these
Nor the stars high over
Come to a stop.
Neither these nor the sea horses
Running with the clocks of the moon.
Nor even a shooting star
Snatching a pencil of fire
Writing a curve of gold and white.
Like you.. I counted the shooting stars of a winter
Night and my head was dizzy with all
Of them calling one by one:

Look for us again.

1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (2 votes, average: 5.00 out of 5)