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■ Pașadine în vers alb (73)
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2009-08-06 | [Acest text ar trebui citit în english] | Înscris în bibliotecă de jkloungsuh
After that hot gospeller has levelled all but the churched sky,
I wrote the tale by tallow of a city's death by fire; Under a candle's eye, that smoked in tears, I Wanted to tell, in more than wax, of faiths that were snapped like wire. All day I walked abroad among the rubbled tales, Shocked at each wall that stood on the street like a liar; Loud was the bird-rocked sky, and all the clouds were bales Torn open by looting, and white, in spite of the fire. By the smoking sea, where Christ walked, I asked, why Should a man wax tears, when his wooden world fails? In town, leaves were paper, but the hills were a flock of faiths; To a boy who walked all day, each leaf was a green breath Rebuilding a love I thought was dead as nails, Blessing the death and the baptism by fire.
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