TE17 Mysterious Montenegro

Ten Poems

Lullaby

The sun sets over high hills. Today is Friday, the hard night is about to come where memories stomp on roof tops

and each word said is a job well done.

While awake there’s fear of winter tears, land buried

under snow. How your baby has died without being born.

So sleep arrives like a streetcar

rolling slow. A golden boat sails in dreams where a breeze whispers over a blue-white sea and behind those hills, the ever rolling sun falls into childhood where your chores were left undone.

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