The Passing

The hand of time
shall soon close itself about me.
The winds of winter foretell the final days
which demand I step into the endless depths of eternity…
powerless to deny its irresistible command,
I must now accept repose beneath the silent
earth of the valley.

While reflecting in my quietest moments,
I sometimes ponder the hour of my birth
when I beheld in wonderment…
the fading, twinkling stardust upon my tiny hands,
and then how I followed, with such unfailing resolve and courage,
the burdened path destiny lay before me.

The softly tolling bell proclaims my journey near an end,
at last… my duty done.
Weep not, nor utter regret,
for I shall touch the stars once more
and with…stardust covered fingers…begin the
journey once again.

--Zorika Petic

The Passing

The hand of time
shall soon close itself about me.
The winds of winter foretell the final days
which demand I step into the endless depths of eternity…
powerless to deny its irresistible command,
I must now accept repose beneath the silent
earth of the valley.

While reflecting in my quietest moments,
I sometimes ponder the hour of my birth
when I beheld in wonderment…
the fading, twinkling stardust upon my tiny hands,
and then how I followed, with such unfailing resolve and courage,
the burdened path destiny lay before me.

The softly tolling bell proclaims my journey near an end,
at last… my duty done.
Weep not, nor utter regret,
for I shall touch the stars once more
and with…stardust covered fingers…begin the
journey once again.

--Zorika Petic

Abandoned Houses

Abandoned houses are

illusion reaching

its end;

wind and rain and time

root for the

ground.

They have the calmness brought

by defeat,

the bearing of farmers

who are whittled

and resist no more than

enough.

See how easily the earth

takes them back:

an eye here,

a bone there, the same rite

as with the animate.

The open windows

are in the flight path of night

tired and bound

for home.

-- Zorika Petic

Abandoned Houses

Abandoned houses are

illusion reaching

its end;

wind and rain and time

root for the

ground.

They have the calmness brought

by defeat,

the bearing of farmers

who are whittled

and resist no more than

enough.

See how easily the earth

takes them back:

an eye here,

a bone there, the same rite

as with the animate.

The open windows

are in the flight path of night

tired and bound

for home.

-- Zorika Petic