The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves one
Here the Birds' Journey Ends by Mahmoud Darwish
Here the birds' journey ends, our journey, the journey of words,
and after us there will be a horizon for the new birds.
We are the ones who forge the sky's copper, the sky that will carve roads
after us and will make amends with our names above the distant cloud slopes.
Soon we will descend the widow's descent in the memory fields
and raise our tent to the final winds: blow, for the poem to live, blow
on the poem's road. After us, the plants will grow and grow
over roads only we have walked and our obstinate steps inaugurated.
And we will etch on the final rocks, "Long live life, long live life,"
and fall into ourselves. And after us there'll be a horizon for the new birds.
Dawn by Andrzej Stacink
Down here semi-darkness and inference still reign
The air's like cold ink
it flows along the road surfaces
splits to each side and
congeals into black lakes.
Objects are no more than their own shadows.
The night slowly raises it backside.