#kazemsi

Where only parched sounds can last - there proud pines overlook  a few shrunken stalks, and the cardoon violet.

The late afternoon with its promise of bells, of the mass you will abstain, opens over the peaks as a small trove

empty of gold. The honorable hosts of loyal spruces quiver in their restless calm like waiting soldiers. The tense rope of the hours and this circle

of mountains call a gathering to gaze at the strength of old roots in hard valleys.

Look at this clenched river:

digging its way

grinding its own ice

forming and warping

into the cool frame of vapors

from chimney flues.

                 This strolling

of fawns I cannot spot

- neither day, nor night -

abandons the path and leaves

squarely a crooked trail,

where the pines’s jade does but announce

this snowy breath.

To caress pages does not give

a marbled relief of your face smiling,

only a sense of time, which here inscribes,

among wood knots and these peaks,

thoughts into landscapes.