30 stycznia 2014
DROOPING
For a desolatory trident
I was feeding my anger.
I could not do it, sell
myself for punitive lenses of my calculus.
A nymphalid arsenal.
The war was still going on
to strike in deep poctets, demolishing
nascent hope. Future will
ponder at the mascots. The grief
of rags and riches will continue
listening to eternal conflicts.
The wounds will develop whiskers.
Not for the opulent pain in the body:
we were crying for the glory of the man
which was disappearing fast,
under the whirling snow of broken stars.
Satish Verma
4 lutego 2026
Yaro
3 lutego 2026
sam53
3 lutego 2026
sam53
3 lutego 2026
wiesiek
2 lutego 2026
sam53
2 lutego 2026
sam53
1 lutego 2026
violetta
1 lutego 2026
Arsis
1 lutego 2026
gabriel 123
1 lutego 2026
Amon