Mountains mute peaked in birds on the pines

They spread their wings in the last of eagle’s flights
Over the whiteness in blanked bloom of time
That tells of no end fulfilled
Will there be anything to melt down with the snow
The question seals each move
In echoes of too human tribes
Bespoken we were by the Holy Spirit Writ
Left broken we grew in new words knit
Silk woven soft tender of no pain
Soil down torn down we shall rise again
Harmony sung souls well hailed hearts
That never were amiss

©Miroslava Odalović

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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