Ruins are turned to rubble,
the living maimed die
next those of older dead
entombed in their homes
a day, a week, a month,
a year ago, they die
and he, translating her
gift of young Yeats, remembers
her other gifts, and desire
awakes, he becomes
lustful, diving into the sentences
of fourteen decades past
he thinks of parting
her legs, kissing her thighs,
and that secret poets
of Yeats' time never could name
while writing their life
around lust like his.
18.05.2025
Verse Poetry Poems Poem
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
Ei kommentteja:
Lähetä kommentti