poems back artist cataloque
The frost of years
Is crunching in my lips
Like crystals of my wrinkles.
Some term is meant,
It's meant for you,
It's meant for me.
There'll come an hour, a minute,
The hiway snake
Will sting its own body,
Each one to shudder,
To look back,
Lean over baskwards.
The face will mett in a looking-glass,
What will be left of it?
A question, Earthly vagabond,
That still keeps calling like a prayer
In bowels of its eyes.
It,s shuddering, it's flowing,
It is an echo
Of the ones who squeezed out whisper
Into the man's nowhere,
The ones who nad
A walk along the crucified avenuess,
Who wrapped their hearts

From rattle and from chill,
Who didn't stop to heat the faith-bird.

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