/By the thought on the 100-th birthday of Don Juan Matus,
To Olga B./
What the birds could hear
Time when the space go asleep,
No one to prevail they knew.
No soul is done to dream insincere.
No sky can escape to be thought
Of being near
To the eye of Grace new.
The sigh is the heart's atmosphere.
For whate'er the mountains stayed
As the myths with those few,
The sea-birth hymns the light over there.
Joy ancient and Earth for you.
/09.09.2014 - 12.09.2014/