Wraith II
A call of the gust speaks thousand words
passing amid the weeping cries of Cedars,
bears up souls in woods, lost nightly hordes,
amounting solitude, of Pine needle guitars;
Wind is blowing mournful amid the foliage,
while rain's droplets whisper caressing,
leaves that rest on the ground to assuage,
the wraith's solitude, of self addressing.
Denoting calls in the breeze, a black Alder,
designing spirals of airy spells, around Fir,
a wraith whirls in twilit dance; sky's border,
were we subdued in lightless and void glare?
Rain is falling, souls turned up to bedizen,
skies are blessing the form that sky-rises,
benignant smiles spirits bestow to glazen,
as lonely Dryads spell whispering advises.
The wraith whirls in twilit play; to faraway,
beckons above Oaks shingle, her dusky wing,
our souls in woods, ghosts of a dour Sunday,
dwell in Cedars; call of cold gust and sting.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
Added by Poetry Lover
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