piątek, 31 października 2014



The night was old, the wind was low
The clouds were shrouding hills afar,
The moon that stabbed some trees below,
A perfect darkness it did mar.

We travelled light, we travelled mum,
Sinistrous turns were forced to take,
Mist showed us sight that made us numb.
Oh, did we pray that it was fake.

Time had its work on this poor cast,
No arms, no ears, like those old busts
Of Greece or Rome, eyes empty, vast,
Not much left of a lovely maid

Between some sycamore trees
Circle of ash and in it
What’s left of her
Life mocked
Left to reappear
Fire into water
Water into soil
Soil into flesh
Or so
And back
And her raw heart
Boosted cruel bravery 
In somebody else’s breast

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