Aged Mirrors (41) Poem by Raquel Angel Nagler

The small body of the evening.
Even the sea
Is the tear of a fish.


Late hours.
The soul: too weary for answers.
It is our body we ask
To tell us our name.


Twilight. The death of legends.
Slowly we realize
Our little days
Are the only myth left,
The only heroes.


Evening is not the end of the voyage.
The murmur, the sighs
Are a journey to our deepest water.



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From Aged Mirrors - trilogyofthemirrors.com