Streams of drought flow indolently, magmatically,
over the dust in my yard
and over the wings of magpies defying silence.
Long, cumbrous streams,
in which dreams splash
like a shoal of fish
insensitive at the sight of the carbon meshes
from my hand.
Streams of thoughts pierce
stone and clay equally,
like veins in search for a heart
into which to pour their unsieved sand.
My palm is an air path
for unholy the death of summer –
between us and the sky,
stamped by too many dry lips kissing it,
only the wind,
quarrying feverishly through the abyssal streams
for water seeds.


© Liliana Negoi

originally written in Romanian

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: