hellegennes έγραψε: 07 Ιουν 2019, 02:08
Alight
Since embrangled is the hour,
on its shiny dust of morning,
on its crazy lust of mountain;
of the mountain which you walked at,
at the heights of nightly shadows,
mingling dusty parts of matter,
with the tiny bursts of shiver.
Thus the burden of the Wickstead
must be carried by miss Wickfield;
she embroiders in a haven,
well below the reach of nightmares,
hidden in a secret cornfield,
well beneath the realm of dreams.
Widdershins the sun is moving,
move the stars of grasp beneath it;
moves apollo by small pluto,
casts his shadow onto venus,
his beloved sister lost,
in the streams of yonder space,
in the milky-way engulfed,
by the rocky planet Terra,
which beneath its bluish surface,
hidden is a land of people,
people which believe in nothing
and to a million gods they pray.
Παρασκευή 25 Δεκεμβρίου του 2009
The House on the Hill
There's a house, left there quietly,
on the top of a hill,
with golden hay leading to it's top
and some lonely trees, spreading their shadow,
like willows abandoned and forgotten.
It stays there, at the end of the picture,
with the sky blue and the clouds scarce.
Left, in the middle of the sun,
with the webs on its sills
and the old spiders sleeping softly on a midday.
It sleeps too, with no one to come awake it.
Peacefully the sun drops and sets,
only to recover the next day
and hang there for many moments,
to look upon the house.
And oddly enough, the house stares back.
The colour is worn off, the wood is weathered.
And there is silence there, above the hill,
below the blue sky, with the small, white clouds
and the spider who now sleeps for a long time.
Dreaming of the poppies and the hay,
who spread theirself across the field, below.
Τρίτη 08 Σεπτεμβρίου του 2009
Αφιερωμένο στον Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935)
