At the mouth of the stream, there is a mysterious island.
A mountain on the island.
The trees there bear (no Tree-of-Life) precious stones.
A place of desires.
I crouch down in my torn clothes.
Bloodstained cloak.
I cut off my hair and howl.
Slain man wallowing in his blood.
They are so terrified they forget to call for mourners.
The other side of death.
They mourn with astonishing frequency.
A razor from beyond the Euphrates.
She saunters under quick green trees, angels falling around her.
Chinks in the rational.
Song turns into lamentation.
Canopy of darkness.
Soldiers offer strawberry coral.
Eidola.
The dark is slippery.
Shapeless logs, sacred stones, then images.
---Keith Waldrop
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment