By Thomas Page
This is a series of poems of words that do not directly translate into English. I have tried to capture the essence of the word in a poem.
The highway holds an eerie quality
When the horns belonging to steel horses
Evaporate with the stalled tires in garages far away.
The moon, hidden by its height,
Looks to harken Morpheus in the darkness
Encroaching on the headlights ahead of me.
They call it the witching hour—
A time when the eyes cannot see
Under the moonbeams.
The line dividers merge into a border
That I have to mind lest I merge
Into the lane next to me.
I, having worked into tomorrow, welcome
The time unhuman as I hope to close yesterday
When the dayless moon at its peak.
A morning without light,
An evening with breaching light,
A time that is closed to most.
Not even a crystal-eyed creature dare venture
To utter a sound to break the slumbered veil
That cloaks the nameless time in silence.