Whispers of the moon
It is not the stars that are called fleeting,
but the nuts that, rolling, escape from the squirrels.
It is the plants that cry and weep,
without a single drop of water.
It is the shadow of the leaves,
of the walls,
a perfect blend of light and darkness.
The birds surround the tree.
The back is mine,
the front all yours.
And I see you...
at the corner of the orchard.
And I see you, black eagle.
Your face is madness,
never lost from sight,
even if it is from behind you,
there, curled up like a gentle crow.
D