Foreign Dream
Stirring slow or faster in the night dread silence, found in sleeping cities where virgins shyly dance before their mirrors,
yet without light,
turning to intense inspections, soft as murmurs passing windows, briefly heard from strangers never seen, somewhere bound,
the river flows,
pausing only for reflections on a mighty bridge light, gauze yellow or unholy white, bursting into calmness, when ships cease disturbance.
Do you hear me?
Motions of crossings in the final journey,
nothing
halts. But stirrings slow or faster, move in unfelt currents, changes, untouched by dawn.
This time, foreign.
~
to get back to the original version of the story, click here ~ words: Gary Beck, New York
painting: Ira Joel Haber, New York (online gallery) |