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MURALIST
by Julius Rascheff


The stones are everywhere.
Here, violent sunlight
Dries the broken voices
And turns their whispers
Into wind.
 
A breeze of hope
Caressing with tenderness
These hollow human shells.
 
Empty bodies with faces cracked
Under the cruel heat.
Cremated in the crib.
Their crisp cries and supplicating eyes
Have quietly... faded... away...
 
At night the starry skies
Send signals souls seek for,
Singing the songs of sylphids,
Serenading their sweet sleep.
The sliding sleds in swift swirls
Seep silver on the silent swamps...
 
Here, the stones are everywhere.
Violent sunlight from a cruel sun
Dries the broken voices -
The dead men's whispers - and
Turns them into wind.
 
A breeze of slight hope
In the wake of eternal  night.
 
These are the empty bodies
The human shells
Filling the cold earth,
With hands outstretched
In supplication of life

Of life lost,
Of life forgotten.

Between the Act and the Idea, hangs the Veil.
Between the Response and the Creation, hangs the Veil.
 
 

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