Friday, May 27, 2005


by Zinta Aistars

Strife settles and smoothes;
now only the silent bleed,
the sluicing away of memory,
the dim echo of long ago sirens
that sung the heart raw,
until the vessel is empty
once again and waiting
to be filled.

There is that far horizon,
that clean line across the mirror
of water like glass, soft lapping
at one’s feet in pious devotion,
and pebbles washing in a tumble,
empty shells with crumbled edges,
remnants of a life lived vulnerable
and coiled tightly inside,
grains of sand catching sun,
remind one of serenity
long before it is felt.

(Watercolor painting, "Jura," by Viestarts Aistars.)


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