On Wings

To delve in a forest of logic brings calm/ and reserve, abandoned completely./In the searing summer of sickness,/one hand always caresses the other, deftly./To keep a rhythm in stillness/by the sun disk in the temple./It makes us wander together,/malingering with gods/each hour, spending time staring,/at passing dreams/wings beat against glass panes in escape./It sings when they shatter;/a moment is captured./These wings move and touch you,/ you glance over one shoulder/they scold you, then console you./You read them with your lovely eyes./They belong to a brood/that can always read your eyes./I can see them fly over,/they burn like a furnace,/in a presence with no guilt or sorrow./The hands end their caress,/tears shine in the eyes that read./What’s spent on wings departs.

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