Poetry

The frustrated dream

And surely your blood

of your lives will I require.

Genesis: 9-5

It’s not the principle of bitterness who can write the verses and days reconciled in the shadows. Not because poets die rest I sat down to write. It’s not the darkness that fell from the pious emptiness of prayer, even the mourning forgotten heritage pronouncing the word.

    It’s the hope dying as thirsty kicking colt. It’s the exquisite pillow sick dying God. It’s the lament brother in the corners of time. It’s the same life crying every tear of one man ... the man ... The man who reddens her crying in the days of absolute mercy of his fall.