Friday, April 1, 2016




Who are we in the haunted wood? Should we give this question to the moon? Our dreams talk in an unlocked room. Time's streams flow in a phantom mood. Haunting Moon! What is bad or good? Our dreams being seagulls will find their food. The branches of the trees may be dressed or nude. Who sets a fire to burn a wind's broom? Time's streams flow over this written book. What is still floating in a haunted brook? Its water may jump to capture a boot. Haunted wood! Our dreams are dancing on your green hood.


Which bird's feather drank from the inkpot to write a legend or a song? Horizon! I wonder if you saved a crane's folk, Horizon! You might hear my earthly talk. The sky's skin is blue silk while a crane is as white as chalk. Horizon! Are you a board on which this piece of chalk writes a word? It's me or a crane or maybe a stork drinking some water from this dew's drop. White crane! Let's go for a moonlit walk! I wonder if you saved what I lost. White crane! You don't know what might be wrong. Horizon! Is this my wing's feather soaked in my inkpot? It's me or a crane or maybe a stork settled in the world for this earthly folk. White crane! You are as mystic in your white clothes as I am in my ink's storm.


I will be a balloon on a remote hill. I will greet the snow knitting a white sheet. That lost rainbow is our silver mist. This horizon is a transparent eye without an eyelid. I wonder if it sees me. How many voices have risen to sing? What have they done with these wandering winds? Have they met rainbows before being asleep? A dream is a balloon pumped up by stubborn lips. It may go up to reach its breeze. I will greet the stars in a moonlit street. The stars have never melted with any sleet. They memorize all the drips on this horizon's skin. No ladybird knows what it used to be or what it will be. It is on a leaf which is still green. This horizon is an open door above countless fields.


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