there is a grave
whose womb
is filled with madness
madness so dense
madness made of my holy howls
made of my father's madness
made of my mother's madness
I echo inside that womb
mutilated by
angelic wars
for a hand of soil
that bruises my skin
and eats stillborns
grown in my resurrected garden
it is spring
oh death be dead
so I could break your arms
and your legs
and your putrid skull
I would dress your wounds
(you are manlike)
in my sacred hair
and warm almond flowers
I would marry you
for a hand of soil
that bruises
milky face of dawn
there is a grave
a mad mad grave
where I become
a bitter almond tree
Žalost veje iz teh angleških besed in zelo pretresljivo se mi zdi tole:
I would dress your wounds
... žalost v tej pesmi je nalezljiva...
Kako postaneš grenko mandljevo drevo; koliko norosti in grobov in smrt, ki nosi konfekcijo, ukrojeno za človeka ... čestitke,
lp, Ana
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