Everything vibrates, the sky, the sea, the owl, the church, the sun, the wind.
the wind, there the clarity of the sun flickers to the swaying of a screaming madman:
the face looks at the vertex of light,
the hill of night turns to see me,
the haggard load of cedar mist,
hangs from the sky, shedding: heliotropes,
in the white tunic noon that pours wine and gall,
harvest time of wheat seed, milk and honey!
At the edge of the stone rivers buzz, the blue bees
on the red horizon, the sun points its silver rifles,
the skeletons of the old trees whip the last shots of the breeze.
At the edge of the air, the last soldier of hidden wars will live,
a fence of thorns lulls my song, the last song gives the meager harvest.

Thank you very much for stopping by to see and read my post.

The drawings illustrating this poem were made by the author.

Antonio Evies, April 2024