Three Wells

Near my house without well
a birch on the street was dying since spring,
top upright branches were throbbing white and dry
over the leaves still green below,
women turning around their prams with babies.
I was crying mostly with my left eye
feeling pain in the eye that couldn’t cry,
I had to go on my way

In our house from between three wells
waters didn’t raise anymore in the basement,
the oil got thicker in the old lamp,
some stray flies slipped inside that glass
attracted by choking pears falling on the roof
for so many years,
silence gathered in the dust outdoors,
nests stayed empty in the stable
sprinkled with whitewash, without cobwebs

The next day it must have been raining,
a red moon was rising behind my grandfather,
the very first in my life, it could have been in September,
his stories were multiplying,
I was throwing them one by one in my mind,
seeds hidden in watermelon slices,
staring at that moon’s core before coming back
from far away even farther
bringing the rain with me
where the birch’s cry disappears
like an orphan young swallow
home

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a house between three wells

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Categories: My Poems in 2011 | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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