In sunset's land, where mountain gets in red and thyme presents its soul, my name is uttered, from wall of stone to wall of stone. The night grows up and stars tremble and shine, and scent of pines spreads around the sight of sky dressed in blood and night. And borns, the calm as if the ethereal sea all made of dying light flooded the space and land, as it embraced your skin and took up to the sky. . . . To all the posts about poetry . . .