Poets

1) Those were days of cycling in the mountains. Of climbing, descending. Of enormous hunger for more and as long as they blocked the peak's virginity from view in their groaning scent of resin,

Bared heart, let yourself be dragged, gasping for breath, through the mire, cold fled 'ing on the satin of a cushion

When the Swiss evening falls, backlit behind the billowing white of curtains the mountain's watching.