Nocturnal Poem by Argiris Fytakis

This being the middle of the night,
the roads are empty.
Nothing left to this storm.
Even the garden stiffened.

Alone. I am alone.

As a dark huge shawl weaves over the sky
a mist of dreams
mixed with night's moist,
nothing moves.

In or out.
Back or forth.

When the thunder strikes
and the tide is ebbing,
the sky mourns.

A deafening roar.
A wail of the night.

The wind rises over the horizon,
the waves wither.

The rocks are smashed,
the trees are dancing to
an unchoreographed dance.

My hands are arid.
I am not here anymore.

I am sitting over the edge,
dissolving myself
with my own wet hands.