to dance on knives in glint of moon
with sharpest blade that is in tune,
upon the grass of green contrast
a vein of silver was the caste.
with eyes in shine their bright in dark
the blink between ignites the spark
as moon will darken, night does drift
two spirits cleft no longer shift.
within the cleft, the one will slip
and bathe in vein of silver's grip;
no sound is heard no knives are seen
as both are now betwixt the screen.
amidst the flames and black of night
thirty eight ashes take to flight. ~
`t. imaan tretchicovmanicova
copyright © 2008