the smoke eats spitefully into my eyes,
the bonfire is almost dying…
there’s not a smallest trace of sunrise
though i am too numb to mind.
troodos nights, like imposing silent stones,
watch my fellow campers sleep.
i am neither lonely nor alone,
or i so choose to believe.
i’ve run out of brushwood, my fire dies,
scarlet coals are turning to grey.
that’s a blessing –
to long no more for sunrise.
<a sun-worshipper led astray>
09.08.2009
