Fynn and the Windmills

Deep inside me
and you
lives Fynn .
Fynn, with two watering-can-hands,
which water with letters
the windmills
in the mind’s gardens.
Fynn, from whose eyes streams
the four cardinal points.
Fynn, whose soul
is striated with veins,
swollen
from the living rivers of words.
Words, with whose DNA
you can trace back
your family tree,
all the way back
to the firstborn roots
of the world,
where me, you and Fynn
are brothers
gathering the harvest of winds
and tie in sheaves
the windmills,
who grind our souls
into fine flour, with which
five minutes before
the end of the world
we will knead
our best poems.

©Ivet Aleks

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