Thursday, 24 March 2016

poetic fragments op. 45


That time,
Lush gingkos
On the field.
I was waiting
Under one of the trees.
I can’t remember now
What I was waiting for then.
But someone was performing
Impromptus by Schubert
In the music room.
Cicadas were shrilling,
So that was perhaps in August.
Everything was so clear
In sounds, shapes, light and shadow.
And I
Was waiting under the tree more distinctly
Than what I am.
By any chance,
Waiting for what I am,
What I am in a vague way.

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