Резултати претраге

Poetry is an act

Poetry is an act
of affirmation. I affirm
that I live, that I do not live alone.
 
Poetry is a future, thinking
about the next week, about another country,
About you when you are old.
 
Poetry is my breath, moving
my feet, sometimes hesistant,
over the Earth that asks for it.
 
Voltaire had smallpox, but healed himself by inter alia drinking
120 liters of lemonade: that is poetry.
 
Or take the surf.
Corroded
on the rocks she is not truly defeated,
but rather repeats herself and is therein poetry.
 
Every word that is written
is an assessment on old age.
In the end, death triumphs, of course,
 
but death is only the silence in the hall
after the last word has been rung out.
Death is a thrill.
 

night

Versions: #1#2
World of soil,
all lights out.
 
Sleeping body of land
fragrant dear tangerine,
 
hanging on your dreamed sprig (branch)
in the night orchard.
 
Rain in July,
love in words.
 
Your body sleeps
like the shadow of young trees.
 
Please alert me when spelling, print or other inconsistencies are spotted. When spotting them myself I tend to lapse into a *#@%* mood!