She's morning's residence. She's as clear as she is
invisible, as tranquil as forgotten lands.
Her hair is golden, her smooth windows exchange
She appears in bold alluring colors, a pretty basket of
dew, protected by a long crystal rifle.
On the doorstep, a bush shakes off his medals.
The door is open, but the bush hesitates forever: he
doesn't see he's invited.
Gently, the house empties, she jingles her dress, her
heart rustles: the dazed bush doesn't understand.
It's a very complicated game.
From time to time, the glass rifle speaks all alone and
shatters some small thing.
Tags: Prose Literature Culture