Lugav.photosight.ru
The mist of existence
shows openings
The rocks of convention
have become slippery
Only the vines keep
company unfailingly
There is a freshness
hanging in the air
that comes from
breezes of yonder.
My mind is humming
a tune that's
in search of a song
of hope without
an anchor
and of love
without
any guarantee
of fulfilment.
