Our barren story is approaching its looming awe-inspiring final,
and the raving Peacock God is tearing out my forgotten inflamed eyes.
The Purple Androgyne had been an enlightened rough copy of something
more, but the infernal orchestra decided to take aim at their frame.
Your big-nosed hunchbacked Coffin Maker was trying to catch the blunt sun and
the fragile shadow dancing on the murdered omniscient walls in vain.
The organ music of your kisses will scald my mind till the end of time,
and my weary Semitic whisper has been engraved in your dove-like heart.
The livid shivering Old Duffer will collapse to your marble-cold feet,
and his greasy soul will turn to ashes in the furnace of bulky gods.
I shall turn into baby’s vertebra and click against the broody floor,
but the pale faint sound of my fading steps will puncture you henceforth.
Torch Song. Version 2
© Copyright: Ханан Варни, 2022
Свидетельство о публикации №122010405770
Свидетельство о публикации №122010405770
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