The mist of nearing winter
hangs like theatre drapes
heavy and velour
I might hear an aria
in places where light cannot reach
The water is my audience, deep and melancholic
I’d walk here in almost silence
Only the sound of my steps
Crushing the remains of my pleasures
In curled brown leaves
Decomposing and waiting for the flurry
to carry them like a procession of mourners
their serenade so heartbreaking
I die each night searching for those words
I wake each morning having found them
words © malai carrara 2011
image by metin demiralay
