Evening suns are
like quelled emotions;
warm and tired,
ready to go to bed.
And then the
cracked moon, saunters
up the sky,
she takes a little look
down our cracked hearts,
she touches them with
her moonlit quilt,
and we but all,
rest in peace.
Untill it's time for
the morning sun
to rage again.
Again we wait,
for evening suns
and moonlit skies.
Whoever loves the day?
YOU ARE READING
h a i m i s h
Poesía. . . haimish; moon talks, and alleyed pyols. . . . homes a collection of snippets from the times I feel most at home. prose/poetry
