bird-cherry nights

like a soundless party upstairs,
the bitter-sweet fragrance creeps
into my dreams, perfectly
blending in, subtly
turning the stream of subconscious
in a stranger  route,

and i, asleep, watch
the white and the magic
dance, twine, grow
and then – nothing, as the wind
changes, and the nightingale
bubbles and gurgles
the sun awake.

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