137 Wind was my roommate in the halls of the bewildered winter -- Whistling of missing ceilings but still closing doors, Of the perused in autumn but unspoken words; Lingering in unwritten poems and through limpid limits; Twisting the images of you in frozen poses; whisking Whispers of portents from the withered shells of lost Things; and bewitching me of, melted long ago, Pollen of snow throughout the, open in the summer, windows; Pondering over the events that do not have a meaning; Whimpering of the crossroads that I cannot cross, Over my words of you in sleep I cannot know; Wielding your portrait on my wistful linen of the winter.







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IRENE CĂSAR
Confined Verse
Collected Poems

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