Sunday, January 31, 2016

Only a Yew Tree

by Elena Croitoru

The rivers are turning
into bronze clay carcasses
with shrivelled lips which stretch
like the horizon.

The sky is a
mosaic of broken blue glass,
slicing chiffon clouds
with no water to give.

No movement on the flatland.
No snails to drink
colourless blood.
No daffodils to pierce
the Romanian plain.

Only a barren yew tree clings to the earth.

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