I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
— Ted Hughes, The Thought-Fox [1]
Prints are on snow:
No word is born yet,
Only the pencil hovering
Over the white surface,
Under black forest.
No sound enters.
Time is entirely frozen.
Only the shadow of a thought
Leaves its mark on the drift.
A foxy path across the page
Drops from the lead —
A blurring print, not yet a beast,
Ready to break the threshold.
Then suddenly,
The animal leaps
Through the eyes of the window.
The pencil drops —
The page breathes fire.
Conception
© Copyright: Саша Казаков, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126090201625
Свидетельство о публикации №126090201625
Рецензии