How did you like this city, drop by drop
carved by lax water in the midst of pines?
And did you see a dream in these confines,
behind walls of pain that wouldn’t stop?
Or did you see the moon, a lump, a blob
that Jucar soaks with glass until it shines?
Your fingers, were they kissed by brutal spines
that crowned the lonely stone, that lay atop?
Did you remember me or did you care
when you approached the silence of the snake,
cold prisoner and master of deep stare?
Did you not glimpse the rupture, burning break,
my heart, my blood in the transparent air?
Oh dahlia of pain, my last mistake!
The Poet Asks His Love About the Enchanted City of Cuenca F. G.
© Copyright: Борис Старосельский, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103020100014
Свидетельство о публикации №103020100014
Рецензии
На это произведение написаны 3 рецензии, здесь отображается последняя, остальные - в полном списке.