Poezii

Nicolae Sirius Blind days Blind days, closed moments, When my unworded question Of who am I, and where am I going, If I am not here, and nothing exists. The children of midnight lie about In ditches. How they fondle the mud. Bare slimy mud blossoms: Sunflowers by another name. I am not here, nor am I yonder: I repeat this to myself For my rebellious words have been ransomed By kings, between sharp blades of the knife. My hours are spun By the mad whirring spindle And my death clambers up the ladder Of my star-studded dreams. Poetry page