Contributions and bridges

On land, the questions of progress are like children,

shivering as they gaze at the current of the river,

and the sea stretches its long arm

to the feeble, aging wanderers.

A tin sign still remembers

plagues long past. On the shore,

village communities write verses on

small stones – then throw them

many cat’s leaps away. 

Only at the

edges, the cities

sew the wound of the land with darker arches.

The night still beads like

dew on the meadow's edge – it staggers with dew on worn paths,

and at the river delta, they sluice splashing into the land.

The clothes on the shore are all spotted by the grass:

skinned bandages lie,

delicate beauty sways in the river.