Foolish thing, to write poems.
These boughs of laurel never blow.
More foolish, to take the verses of
others, twist them onto different
tongue. Dead words of strangers,
them too you won't revive. A knave's
endeavour then, poetry. But what else
there is to imbibe when the ivory breast
and the wry mouth are lost?
19.06.2023
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
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