Traveller Poem by Dan Danila

I met the old pilgrim,
the bearer of shades,
a mantle breathing near his body,
very slow transitory sign
through the rain country,
smelling always the same –
like crushed leaves by night.


Silhouette wandering through
lenses thick like railplatforms,
aligning magnetical waves
and ghosts passing by,
unwritten memoirs – feebleness
to respite among the blighted
or the happy launcers
of sofisticated handgliders,
the collectors of albums.


O, I forgot to ask
how much time, how long
are waiting for us the unseen temple.