Jun 2014
Death,
into whom
did I turn
in the turning
of time?
Where lays the child
the woman
and all the lovers
once longed for her?
Am I this
elderly woman?
Laying
in this coffin,
sweaty in the cold
(colder than fear:
who glued my lips?),
glimpsing
my still hands
through a slit
of my blue eyes.
What's the use
of the world,
now my voice is gone?
I can no longer
bring this world to life,
to lively truths and lies.
I will deliver it all to fire
as I throw my body into the flames.
And I forget.
And I am forgotten.
[6/6/14]
into whom
did I turn
in the turning
of time?
Where lays the child
the woman
and all the lovers
once longed for her?
Am I this
elderly woman?
Laying
in this coffin,
sweaty in the cold
(colder than fear:
who glued my lips?),
glimpsing
my still hands
through a slit
of my blue eyes.
What's the use
of the world,
now my voice is gone?
I can no longer
bring this world to life,
to lively truths and lies.
I will deliver it all to fire
as I throw my body into the flames.
And I forget.
And I am forgotten.
[6/6/14]
I know this is not a good poem; just had to put in words the odd mood in wich I came back from this funeral.
* "Wind in a box" is the title of a wonderful poem by Terrance Hayes; check it out here: www.smith.edu/poetrycenter/poets/windinabox.htm
* "Wind in a box" is the title of a wonderful poem by Terrance Hayes; check it out here: www.smith.edu/poetrycenter/poets/windinabox.htm
