Clouds appear as ice landslides
against the fading twilight,
golden and red strikes above the horizon
Yet despite discolouration I couldn’t help
the assumed assimilation of Northern Skies
and Mountain Glaciers
When I would let my gaze wonder
I would let the clouds bestumble me
with inspiration back to outlived vacations
on slopes and well. Clouds.
Some befall me with reminiscence
With a soothing melancholy subdivision I call melancholia grazia
(- or: “the melancholic mood of thought that envelopes the individual with a sad gratefulness)
In the North
skies are struck with softer light and thus they taste of an ice berg story, a forsaken romance.
From It’s breezes flowing down my airways
I steal a sip of freedom.
I am overcome with visions of lights although the sun has now retired from us.