Crushed under the sky,
when you had
become a transition.

In the lonely
night, waking without you,
when words start screaming.
like howls of wolverines.

Life around appears now, not
the worth of holy water, in your
folded palm.

Your birthday flowers
bloom in dark. Someone
will dance around the campfire
till the crack of half-light.

The salt lake bubbles.
Nobody will drown in it.
And I believe,
purple stones would stand
to guard the new spectacle.


  • Paul Bell

    What a great poem.
    Sometimes we really should stop and just marvel at our world in splendor.

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