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FLIGHT Our love was not other than this: it left came back and brought us a distant eyelid lowered far away a stony smile, lost in the dawn grass a strange shell our soul insistently tried to explain. Our love was not other than this: it groped silently among the things around us to explain why we don't want to die so passionately. And if we've held on by the loins, clasped other necks as tightly as we could, mingled our breath with the breath of that person if we've closed our eyes, it was not other than this: simply that deep longing to hang on in our flight. 54 ...


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