beyond it, there’s a feeling torn from the azure,

a sensation slowly breathing in the frozen time

an inspiration or an expiration

set free in the painted air

beyond it, there’s the track of November wandering

the roads already trodden by insomnia

a fragment of some timepiece examined in a mirror in great surprise

beyond it, far away, there lie retouched sequences

among wooden spears with their marks worn away

solitary icicles scratch crooked question marks in the air

beyond it, there’s the cozy dream of a pampered baby

that has fallen asleep on its tummy, an incantation held

hostage behind the bars of the stave

beyond it, there’s the blink of an eye upon distress

only a moment away, which moment smolders on black and

white music shaped by the piano keys.

beyond it, one walks barefoot and absentmindedly crushes

under his foot the fresh fragrance of hay.

disconcerted, the time spins around in circles

and gives birth to the hours in the shadow of the all

powerful heaven

beyond it, thoughts yield daydreams

colors are felt and tasted by means of invented senses

beyond hangs among images

with slices of images.

Rada Marin