Fathers

A gray field's canvas
and a smoke perpendicularly
sticked to the sky
autumn is a static
composition
or look differently
father stands aside
looking at the flames
when I'm chucking sticks in the fire
and in a primal delight
I'm going astray
counting sparks out
everything is still to come
my eyes are gray like the ash
like the ash
like the ash
like, like the ash
We stand at the forest's hem
chill is caressing backs
with its rough palm.
the sky is miserable
dark mushroom's shapes
drowses underfoot.
we stand where a field meets the forest
we are holding our hands
blood is pulsing in our temples
in the same primal language
father-and-me

this parting is a ramble
along the ancient forest's hem
I still remember
your work-worn hand separating all
what's good from evilness.
and then
you've been retrieving potatoes
from the bonfire
And now you are fading
among the trees

At the edge of the memory
of this strange forest
the grass grows
base surface rustles and smells
like yesterday

And despite the void declines
in any gram case
it remains equally...
so poignant