The world outside my window,
sometimes big, sometimes small,
sometimes reaching all the way
to the tops of the glistening hills
that border the world’s edge,
reveals itself as the
rays of the sun part the thick
hoary curtains that hide the hills
and the winds sweep away the dust.
Sometimes outside my window
the edge of the world comes closer
as the curtains lie in front
of the hills and deepen the mystery of where the world ends.
Sometimes I’m in the world
when I can feel it against my skin
and feel the dampness knowing
that the watery edges
surround me wherever they are.
The world of variable dimensions
of the mysteries brought about
by the wind and sun,
by the nights and days,
the mood of the clouds,
the inundation of the fog,
the not seeing of what lies behind,
the fuel of imagination,
the stories that enter the mind,
the quixotic blood that flows
through the channels of the brain,
the horses that fly through the skies,
the passion in the flying,
the surrealism of the stories,
the mysteries of the silent depths
engulfed by the edges of the world.

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