Beatrice Noir

The mid morning light
casts shadows around your face.
Like an image of a saint,
I saw once, as a child.

This isnt it, though.
Your hands are so much smaller then I remember.

Yeats is screaming at me,
so I cant tell if I`m dreaming.
The words dont come anymore, they just dont.

And your lips still smile, because you cant
see the death hanging in the air.

Autumn

I rather like this, for a rumination the language is very clear, brings to mind the mona lisa?
very enigmatic.