17 June, 2021

On the Wings of Time

 It is waving me,
time that has spread its wings;
the night is white,
a full glass of wine;
the mind is engulfed,
yet in silence entrapped.

In the morning
the mist silently veiled traces of me;
like my dream
I disappeared
in the whiteness full of queries.
Whenever his soul sings,
peace is embracing me.

His is a warrior's heart,
unbeknown to him;
I can sense the pain
as it's weeping in secret,
as "men" do not cry aloud;
the burnt soul
wills its wounds to cool
like a running train
that is going through all stations.

In the morning
his nearness
became a labyrinth;
the day smiled;
his voice drowned in the sea.

Where has it gone,
the little flame
that he ignited in me
and that is still burning?

Why am I looking for him
when as though he was omnipresent?

On the Wings of Time © Ladanseuse
Transl. "Na křídlech času", written in 1999, edited in 2021

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