Silent the night sinks
like a young girl into your eyes…
Timidly I paint you in my thoughts.
With a brush made of fire and pain.
I don’t want lightings in storm
but I want the rain to wash our faces.
To clean up sore wounds.
To wash up the insult, the whole!
Lets it rain! – over the ember burning!
Tender mist knitted of love
by my fingers with enamoured yarn.
You are painted by doves’ wings
in the white canvas of my dream…
Maria Ilieva
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pastel-5/
