I land:
on a forested path, lined with trees.
The scent of acacia floats in the air,
then cherry, with a touch of pungent firs.
It makes no difference to my eyes,
which water with ambivalent tears all the same.

I drop:
into a mountainside creek, pleasantly chilly.
The rivulet trills its own hill-song,
teasing me into relinquishing my doubts.
I foolishly pull my heart out, onto my hands,
and watch in horror as the currents yank it from my grasp.


I fall:
in a grove, littered with fallen leaves.
The lifeless foliage crackles at my soles,
dead, breaking, gone awry.
I secretly envy them for lacking the capability
to feel disappointed in those who let them fall.

I descend:
onto a lakeside meadow, blanketed with snowflakes.
Death-pale flakes graze my cheek,
kissing them a deep shade of rosy pink whilst passing.
The frost-bitten grass bends to the will of the wind
And caresses my fingers, my lips, my lost heart.