Thursday, July 23, 2015

докато търся стара статия в пожълтяващ вестник,
не усещам
как избелелите букви се плъзват по втвърдилите се страници
и се разтапят в нагорещените фуги между дъските.

от вестника остава само шумът на жълта хартия.

1 comment:

  1. i loved you, so i drew these tides of men into my hands and wrote my will across the sky in stars
    to earn you freedom, the seven-pillared worthy house, that your eyes might be shining for me
    when we came.

    death seemed my servant on the road, till we were near and saw you waiting:
    when you smiled, and in sorrowful envy he outran me and took you apart:
    into his quietness.

    love, the way-weary, groped to your body, our brief wage ours for the moment
    before earth’s soft hand explored your shape, and the blind worms grew fat upon
    your substance.

    men prayed me that i set our work, the inviolate house, as a memory of you.
    but for fit monument i shattered it, unfinished: and now
    the little things creep out to patch themselves hovels in the marred shadow
    of your gift.

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