A LANDSCAPE WITH THREE MOONS Poem by Sibila Petlevski

A path with ridges like fish bone that end in
the bushes or disappear in the moss hindered
by the streaks of old trees. The sickles of burning
moons have been appearing above it recently - two,
three or more. Each walk along the stump of that road
is equal to giving up and means more than a mere turning
off the way. The night is as visible as never before.

And full of scent: in the same way as a leaf crumbled
between the finger and the palm: it is nice to be here,
in the landscape that does not owe its changes to the human
hand or to the nature. There's no choice: paths open themselves
like the petals of peony. They link up and capsize steeply,
the reflections of multiplied bodies fall in cascades:
two, three, or more. The amputated paths branch out: old
wounds of difficult decisions are overgrown by grass tonight.