Ode to Cendrars
Etched,
in the valleys of the moon,
staring from or to.
Blazing the night,
The autumn heat returns,
as crevises,
of minds forgotten return.
What was France, or what is it now,
how splendid was the same moon,
pondered upon,
from a trains window.
Maybe your sensitivity,
is running through someone’s blood,
in the Alps, or the Americas.
I muse as the burn of light,
brings forth,
the ink of your remains.
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