my Sundays
And it's not really pain, I know you.
You are longing for life and solitude of heart
gloomy
gloomy
without sinking ship without star "
(A. Machado)
and collecting I
released with the hook
for all my calendars.
blood red sparkle
in my weeks routine
light, color burn
the pace of my crossings.
On that rictus ruthless
meaningless to sleep
Sunday, one after another
in time with a glass of wine.
A blue sky Sunday
filtering through the window
Flapping is stunned unparalleled
breeze stirred by white tulle.
Sunday collected
my arms tired
writing on a table
loneliness that never happens.
melts Sunday
ice as soon as
stuck in my taste
panting forgetfulness and memories.
Sunday only touch my skin
and my primitive instincts,
otherwise are kept
in the pockets of the calendar
while still Sunday
nostalgic smelling conviction.
Lucy Martinez
June 2010
© CopyrightLUMAR © Copyright
0 comments:
Post a Comment