Into my house they marched - One Hundred Deaths
that never come together, but they came
to torture, to release my soul in flame
of burning flesh and nose-piercing gas.
Not knowing what was done, what to confess,
twelve candles burnt in grief to mark my name
and no one came in to make a claim
on things I left, not willing to possess.
But tall grey columns felt with their skin
Bach's music and began to shake and tumble,
and light revealed its sharp ultramarine.
Believing life was both divine and humble
dark clouds let keen rains cry and clean,
and bumblebees resumed defiant bumble.
One Hundred Deaths
© Copyright: Борис Старосельский, 2004
Свидетельство о публикации №104040400293
Свидетельство о публикации №104040400293
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