russians know cold, she said,
that's why I read them,
but I know cold that blows from the desert,
snow and sand,
two oceans on land,
born to one and one made from,
you wrote the other day,
kind enough words,
but I only saw words behind them,
was it sand or snow (behind them),
I dream of mountain willows,
no such thing
but they are beautiful are they not,
mountain willows...
perhaps beauty can bloom from a desire to remember,
I remember you in untouched sand,
rumi's sand,
perhaps you will remember me there.
Hamnot
he searched for a burden, as men do, but found none more worthy than what he left behind, a prince but not a prince, in cold winter where light shivers and friendships thin, going mad... but just a man going mad, and not, a Prince.
is it what is, or what remains? light does not remain, a word does not contain, a poet does not reduce, I write river but it is your river I breathe.
"snow and sand,
two oceans on land,
born to one and one made from,"
Highkey!