Sunday, September 11, 2011

An Offering from Henry . . .

Bucolic fields in France

By Henry Ireland

A day to want to decipher the mysteries
 printed on the acanthus leaves
 on the rails of the glow
 in the metaphors of the dream.

One more day to go in search of some horizon
 and go to the next station of the happenings.

One more day to live without fear.

What is this absence nostalgic feel
that your home is always elsewhere,
wherever you are not!. !

Wherever seas kiss
white sand beaches that are fixed on the traveler's soul!. !
Wherever the clouds are hung
verses erect a memory!. !
Wherever the battlements of the high towers
will echo sounding deep!. !
Wherever green fields
with the stain of lichen months of the year!. !
Wherever dawn cities are
you always walking towards cavity of time!. !
Here I am writing dreams expatriates. !
Dreams!. !
Only dreams of glass in the windows of a sunset
I write not to be understood but only to be felt!

Clouds in Strasbourg

1 comment:

CŒDES Pierre-Marie said...

Looks like we feel love for this very special person !
See, internet, telephone, letters, whatever, encounters that must be done . . . are done !

Sheers Barbara.