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summer blues


at the edge of summer there she waits,
that she knows not;
in the middle of long, oppressive days
in washed-out yellow
i drag my foot, drawing myself to obscurity;
with the smell of surprising sweet sweat
i see her sketching her life; as i feel my uncertainty

—surely tho', their dying for the motherland is unavailing,
we can see the sunburned land so shocked;
their killing for the land is nauseating,
but all’s melted with the wild passion of the season.


beating the summer blues
Image: Ice Cubes by Petr Kratochvil


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