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. |