Our lousy story is approaching its looming awe-inspiring final,
and the raving Peacock God is tearing out my infected rosy eyes.
The Purple Androgyne had been a bleached translation of something yet to
come, but the infernal orchestra decided to take aim at their frame.
Your big-nosed hunchbacked Coffin Maker was trying to catch the dull sun and
the fragile shadow dancing on the murdered omniscient walls in vain.
Your Afghan kisses will dehydrate my subtle mind till the end of time,
and my clefted child-like whisper has been engraved in your blurred thirsty heart.
The livid shivering Old Duffer will collapse to your marble-cold feet,
and his neutered soul will turn to ashes in the furnace of swollen gods.
I shall turn into baby’s vertebra and click against the dusky floor,
but the pale faint sound of my fading steps will flog your memory henceforth.
Torch Song. Version 3
© Copyright: Ханан Варни, 2022
Свидетельство о публикации №122010608590
Свидетельство о публикации №122010608590
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