/ Brushstrokes



Castle is it, deserted town,
or monastery under the mountain?
The stone is golden, like sand
soaked for a thousand years by sun.
The bridge has no foundations.

All day, all night, it floats on air,
illusions, water, dreams,
a cascade of sound.
The trees are rootless,
they breathe the noise of water.

Imagine, if you can, finding somewhere
to stand, feet firmly on the ground.
Remember your shadow.
Don’t open your eyes. If you do, you’ll be
falling forever, with no place to land.


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