The thin veil of fog blankets the valley, As the trees rise like shadows, And the brook murmurs softly, Telling stories of lost crow’s flight, In this space between dream and wake, Where I stand witness, cold but warm, alive.
- Salvatore Quasimodo
The thin veil of fog blankets the valley, As the trees rise like shadows, And the brook murmurs softly, Telling stories of lost crow’s flight, In this space between dream and wake, Where I stand witness, cold but warm, alive.