a liquid forest,
the density of a piece of glass,
lady's bright emerald tears.
It is a bleeding,
a cave lost,
the density of time,
lady's drooping red heart.
It is an entering
in the languid air,
in the mirror-still lake,
in the silent vibration.
It is a rising
to the highest crest,
to the brightest light,
to the loudest words.
And if you look around
the piece as a whole,
you'll see the lady
with the open arms
...inviting...
Ani Gjika
