poetry texts, poem archive at plagiarist.com

The light wraps you in its mortal flame. 
Abstracted pale mourner, standing that way 
against the old propellers of the twighlight 
that revolves around you. 

Speechless, my friend, 
alone in the loneliness of this hour of the dead 
and filled with the lives of fire, 
pure heir of the ruined day. 

A bough of fruit falls from the sun on your dark garment. 
The great roots of night 
grow suddenly from your soul, 
and the things that hide in you come out again 
so that a blue and palled people 
your newly born, takes nourishment. 

Oh magnificent and fecund and magnetic slave 
of the circle that moves in turn through black and gold: 
rise, lead and possess a creation 
so rich in life that its flowers perish 
and it is full of sadness. 

Added: 24 Aug 2001 | Last Read: 22 May 2013 10:52 AM | Viewed: 20650 times

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