28 lipca 2014
PINK CITY
Burnt-out myths in the old city
are stitching the lips of people.
Pink walls smell like blood.
Priest is dumb, hoisting the headless
deity on throne. Marigolds
are soaked in flowing tears.
Innocent wheels riding against blast,
stand still to measure
the half-life of seizures.
Cult was spreading in place,
fingers and cells Dynasties inheriting
the bleached fathers.
The ages rot under the sculptors.
We walk on water, wordless, sightless
for the thin hope.
Satish Verma
6 marca 2025
absynt
6 marca 2025
absynt
6 marca 2025
sam53
6 marca 2025
Eva T.
6 marca 2025
Marek Gajowniczek
6 marca 2025
wiesiek
6 marca 2025
Bezka
6 marca 2025
Yaro
6 marca 2025
Yaro
6 marca 2025
ajw