March… Someone has walked across the snow, Someone looking for he knows not what. It is like a boat that has pulled away From a shore at night and disappeared. It is like a guitar left on a table By a woman, who has forgotten it. It is like the feeling of a man Come back to see a certain house. The four winds blow through the rustic arbor, Under its mattresses of vines.
© Typotex – Russicon – Hesz