Saturday, 23 October 2010


Black lake
Endlessly deep
Sorounded by old
Piles of stone
Cutting pieces
Of the blue sky
With sharp edges
Of the history

Black stone
Carried away
From the inside
Of the brown
Earth, loosing it's
Will to hands
With no future
And no meaning

Black hands
Forever marked
By what they
Wanted to take
Destroying the nearest
Piece of truth
By hitting the silent air
With a fist

I wrote the poem above after walking around in an area where black granite was broken sometime. Beautiful and scary places with lakes as ink.

Beeing in a cottage in nowhere is nice but also kind of frightening. I liked the light in the forest. It fell through the leaves of the trees and striped the earth with gold. Lots of moss made the rock look soft, and moisture hang in the air. But then I started getting irritated by the fact that nothing really happened, and that nothing ever would. The only shift was the morning I woke up with snow on the leaves outside. The winter had begun.

Photos of he forest will come up eventually. xx Amanda.

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