Rising to the Sun

Steeping noise, hollowed voices

A ghost through fog, dense roads

Barring the leaves fallen to their own crackle

Drenched surface

Nothing leaves footprints on an entrance

The gate creaks

Before a new dawn

In complete envelope

Of reclining hand in hand before fire

I sit and try to smile

More than usual

And play word games

Find adjectives no more, nouns unknown

It must be the shrill of winter

I am waiting for

Among thousand hundred naps

Where among those memories

Where among those paths

All those obvious talks, songs

A crescent moon of one's own continent

Grows out, fades in birches unspent

In quarters where birds won't long fly

All the worries left

Becoming a reason, cold and misty

A silhouette of hills, grey horizon

Limpid mesh of branches

Rough contours of rocks and

Relearning to climb.