***
All is full and convulsed
everything dark triumphs
and lies prostrate ‒ the Poet
has committed suicide
even for you, language of mine
ash and strong wind
for the disconsolate slumber.
The ancient trees, the death
and the nightingales, the frogs,
the sunbeams lament him
for errors and swoons
for deep and inaccessible longings
even you truncated cleanliness of mine
you weep truncated by the shouts
of the teenagers’ naivety, halo
of calm and warm metals.
No comments:
Post a Comment