chips of sunset drip off the palm tree's palms
irrigating the brown grass with flames
I go off the bus to come closer,
cup in my hand the drops and drink them.
The sun already drowned in a haze, but the sea remains golden
aloof duns and brooms
and me floating over some stranger's footsteps
spin on them a story.
Dark, gnarled olive trees over pink sky,
exhausted slumber on the dusty soil amide noisy people
a dale of bacchanalia.
to be freed of the hypnotizing monologue that circles always in my head
to be able to see more clearly when I open my eyes, but I love
tracking the tracks imagining it belongs to someone I know,
wishing it's reality and we'll meet.
© Copyright 2012 Einav (UN: drawerwrite at Writing.Com).
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