Hills-mist

Writer's dream apprehends baby's first kick.

   The preparation was coming to an end but he didn't feel like leaving yet. Through the narrow window, spotted from past rainstorms, the field watched him with its empty hives and called him to plow it, to plow it just once more. He opened the door of his shed and let the warm air enter within the dark linoleum walls. Above his bed was hanging a radio. The old man rotated the button and, while listening to the only station, began going through the books he was leaving behind.   "Radio centre Pleven speaking. You are listening to "Culture hour" with me, Diana Patrashkova . Today we're commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of the death of t

A torn snow cloth is laid upon the mountain, gray-white it merges with the mist which hovers all around the castle a home of many weary kings that is. From clouds small thoughts descent upon the crowned head and as the blacksmith cries More. More! the young lord Mawr stops staring at his steel toes - the veil of worry 's over him restored.

Under the soft tongue, unfit for the soul, in time Sound becomes treasure.