Silent hands
I walk under the crownless trees
wearing nothing but a neon headache.
Streets are hungry and asthmatic,
covered with human residue.
In a drugstore I buy a piece of heaven
and a piece of fire,
too tired for expectance of death
and too beaten for uncertainty.
Humid faces, angry children,
numbness offering
a clarity of mind.
South of my conscience
green Andalusia
and carved seas.
My hands are silent
and they will not whisper
of poetry.
Damned I am
for worshiping the peace
she feeds me
with her dead milk.
Mater Poetria,
I howl and I howl,
yet, you do not awake.
Empty is my poem
and my death is empty.
Blessed.
Blessed.
Blessed.
Neverovatna pesma! Bravo!!
Poz.
Ananda
Izza pesmi in smrti so tihe roke, je pesem, ki popisuje praznino današnjika, čestitke,
lp, Ana
Bravo Branka!
Čestitke!
Ivan
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Napisal/a: nikita
- 14. 12. 2020 ob 15:16
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