There is a dream that travels down my spine,
Nails clicking against the bone, silence enveloping
The foreign footsteps towards a brooding city and scissors
Gliding across the sunshine. You limp through me, chewing
Reinvented roots. Your knees climb through me like a
Stomachache, standing still, and I want to transform the cramps
Into a fantasy and find my voice in your well, reflecting the face
Of fulfilment in the cold harboured water below us both.
“Portrait of Nadezhda Zabela-Vrubel” by Mikhail Vrubel (1856-1910)
