Foreign Dream

Stirring slow or faster in the night

dread silence, found in sleeping cities

where virgins shyly dance before their mirrors,

yet without light,

turning to intense inspections, soft

as murmurs passing windows, briefly heard

from strangers never seen, somewhere bound,

the river flows,

pausing only for reflections on a mighty bridge

light, gauze yellow or unholy white, bursting

into calmness, when ships cease disturbance.

Do you hear me?

Motions of crossings in the final journey,

othing halts. But stirrings slow or faster, move

in unfelt currents, changes, untouched by dawn.

This time, foreign.


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words: Gary Beck, New York
painting: Ira Joel Haber, New York (online gallery)


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