sakura

her lips, soaked with morning
were pressed softly against the cherry tree’s bark,
and her whispers stripped from her breath
fell slowly, among the white petals,
upon the earth washing its stony bones of the night’s darkness:
“we’re dead, you and i. as dead as
the unsowed seeds,
as the shoulders of clouds clipped by flocks of crows.
we are twin corpses,
living our death here, at the word’s edge,
unheard by prayers, unkissed by questions.
and why would we be needed by others anyway?
among the threads of wind embroidering
your sterile flowers
and my sleeplessness
seep sometimes voices from outside –
and none is more gentle than your bark vibrating,
rough,
under my cold word.”
the cherry tree, quivering, stirred mildly its branches,
and a stray sunbeam made it so that
the shadow of one of its leaves,
laid over her right eye
like a silken mask.
her left eye though remained as it was,
an island of blue amidst its ocean of whiteness,
and for a moment in the middle of that island
the cherry tree dreamt that its branches surrounding her
were arms.

© 2014 Liliana Negoi

originally written in Romanian

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