Monica David

Sunset time- a quiet cricket counts the last drops of rain

nightingale- on the Basho\'s hut faded leaves

It\'s darkness, cold and a deep, unpleasant silence. Nothing on TV, the computer doesn\'t work and every one is out. I try to listen some music. I hear the sound of the flute stronger and

chrysanthemums- an old women leans against the putrid fence

autumn rain- the blackbird nestling in an old lime tree

A cricket singing... in the bolted cell a burning pray

Long August day- running for provisions an ant on the plain

hanging at the window through the chained railings lilac blossoms

in the April wind a dandelion wind shakes all the petals

blue-bells again in the Dragan’s valley- sound of pipe

The black shadows, Crickets hidden among thistles- Soon is dark

desert stillness- in my hand, withered a daffodil

so many plum trees shaking at sunrise- purpureal stars

shape after shape- creating my whole world in autumn colors

mother nowhere- the last water melon taken by rivers

weeping willow- the aged men without strength in the summer day

some arrows flying between autumn fallen leaves- the old song of war

The Sea lies endless at the limits of the city and in its mirror reverberates the sky with its charming blue. Maybe the city is the one that borders the sea but in the dying man\'s eyes, the eternal

leaves fall in water, at the old walnut tree\'s foot- a poetry book

crows in a circle beyond the highest trees- prayers for rain

no sky, no sun over and over the rain- the village floats

the bamboo flute- in the forest\'s thicket thousands melodies

Late in the night, with a glass of wine in my hand, I went out on the porch. It was so cold, a dried wind was penetrating into my body but I didn\'t feel anything anymore. - He was a good

what a craziness the blind are looking for light in the eternal night