The water stirs like memories
remembered only in the night's
gloom, under the glow
of a midwinter moon,
that casts its ghostly brilliance
on waters stained with the fire
of all the bleeding stars.
The elements weep.
Opium dreams etched
on the faces of fallen angels,
markers of riverside graves.
Ghosts of haunted dreams
sit on the worn steps
of all the fallen parliaments.
Failed governments.
Dirges of eternal keening
sung to evergreen blossoms,
sprung from riverbed soil,
loamy and soft under feet.
Hands sweep over castle ruins
turning broken stone into dust.
How easily things are forgotten.
Rotten apricot blossoms
are plucked from trees.
Fingers dull from frostbite.
The Iron Gate opens
to cold winter waters
that sweep past frozen limbs,
bodies sent to the afterlife.
Danube calls, the river's lure.
Bronze trophy winner
Adding your comment:
Wonderfully done. ~Pamela 
