Swarms of dragonflies hanging on.
I decided, not to sell my soul cheaply.
The chair is uncomfortable,
but you are just a short
line of silk away.
And the duties are piling up,
but my words are scented
with your plum-rain kisses.
Stepping on thin ice,
you whisper to me –
“In the sea of love,
waves always move”.
The shadow of silence was lifted,
and there was time to reach that
living body, once again.
​
A Wandering Poet 