Moss Poem by Eugenia Dubinova

Exhausted feet on the exhausted soil.
Glances we may or may not have exchanged,
that to us would remain a mystery, perhaps an illusion.
Because our eyes tend to reside in a transfixed habitat.

You saw me lying on the grass, after you said it was beautiful.
But from this grass, I was in prudent hope of deriving power, that I have all rights to.
But this would remain for me a rapid moment of reawakening and brisk pleasure;
That in me did rise something more enchanting,
like when, as a child, I fell into the moss,
under the tender spring wind and the humidity that would nourish my body, give me ecstasy.

Everything now reminds me of ballads, of the most sensual poetry that invokes hope of meeting my own rapture in the eyes of others who, in their most original being, have all the power to withhold that same rapture.
And never did I wake up without awaiting this encounter, for I tend to believe there is a lost part of me that is dormant in some other being,
And when they meet me, feel my presence, that sleeping force will spring up and give me a sign that keys were always more
than a physical object, to open another physical object.

And when we finally share that key of ours,
I know, for this truth enfolds me in the most gracious ways,
we will lay in moss together.
Penetrate, let it shower us softly, that spring wind - together.
Bodies nourished. Lovely moss.