(draft of a Zagajewski cento)
Serpents in the vineyards slither softly.
Anything can happen.
What was ordinary isn't possible anymore.
Open wide the white fan of the window.
The cool wind interrogates the birds.
Children run across the flagstones.
Pale nights row noiselessly into the sky.
and a lark bathes in a puddle.
Through meadow and hedgerow, village and forest,
the weak blue flame of homeland wanders.
A fence. Chestnut trees. Bindweed. God.
Breathless autumn, racing, blue.
A tree on which a star sleeps.
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Addendum : The blogger at Enchiridion is having a cento contest!