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01/11/2021
Floyd
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The green ghosts of backlighting
Do you know the little herb fairy? She sings above a green lake: Here is a place on the backlight, flooded from every direction, of glistening yellow, shimmering fresh lemon butterfly hiss, where bergamot wings beat, the winds carry kitchen herbs, wormots crunch tart buds and brightly whisper the ethereal elves: Come to us in the marshland, in the moor!
Do you see the bright clouds of incense that carry Hesperid beads? They drift o'er the lake in tangled waves, Lavender in shimmering camomiles, And sway the damp meadows on the brink.
If you follow the terpentines into the moss, there await footbridges of sandalwood. There you throw roots into earthy mounds, it still rains crumbs of incense and herbs over snail-tracks of balsam cream that perish in alcoholic fermentation, drunkenly the spirits in the mire now sleep of soap-moss and earth, there they whisper of the little fairy still long, hour after hour.
(With thanks to Chizza)
Do you see the bright clouds of incense that carry Hesperid beads? They drift o'er the lake in tangled waves, Lavender in shimmering camomiles, And sway the damp meadows on the brink.
If you follow the terpentines into the moss, there await footbridges of sandalwood. There you throw roots into earthy mounds, it still rains crumbs of incense and herbs over snail-tracks of balsam cream that perish in alcoholic fermentation, drunkenly the spirits in the mire now sleep of soap-moss and earth, there they whisper of the little fairy still long, hour after hour.
(With thanks to Chizza)
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