The lonely landscape whispers of itself.
Yesterday's shadow overtakes the field.
Lost in such thoughts we wonder what to do?
Bones are not strong enough to turn sunset.
...
I dreamt we met in verses once again.
The mood was Lithuanian as yourself.
Our convesation was in pen and ink,
Outdated as a winter aeorgramme.
...
The mood was bittersweet and lyrical.
The birds sang evening almost every day.
My dress was yellow as the paling sun.
Wind whispered of us to the Queen Anne's lace.
...
I watch your poem go down in the west
And know old friends are gold without a doubt.
I clasp your hand to wish you my godspeed.
Our epitaph is written in your eyes.
...
I feel the gray rain falling in my mind.
Crying becomes a thousand leaves outlined.
My eyes are mesmerized by red sumac.
A touch of pewter shines against my back.
...
The sound of rain is winter on the roof.
It whispers us into fragility.
One tear dropp has the power to shatter glass.
The gray scent of the river fills the room.
...
In dreams you walked through vast fields of wildflowers,
While river insects sang their autumn Psalms.
Time like a painted lady butterfly,
At last brought new life to your work worn frame.
...
House corners sing a wind song to the blues.
The air randomly flows with shadow trees.
You come to me across the fading fields.
The passion in your tired face lights the dusk.
...
Friend, let us touch each other with warm words.
Deep in the thicket, hear the evening birds
Talk of old sunsets quite content to be,
No more than what the naked eye can see.
...