Wraith I
A call of the gust speaks a thousand words
passing amid the weeping cries of Cedars,
bears up souls in woods, lost nightly hordes,
amounting solitude, of Pine needle guitars;
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?
A Wraith whirls in twilit grayness, to faraway,
beckons above Oaks Shingle, her dusky wing,
our souls in woods, ghosts of a dour Sunday,
dwell in Cedars; call of a cold gust and sting.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
Added by Poetry Lover
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