|
|
FYODOR'S SOULS
The hands of the day are nailed on my door
The full moon
impaled on the fairy stick
the magic potion
I stirred
with the spoon of devotion
in a chalice of sins
The
panther of the night jumps through the sun
retracing one last line of life
A
clenched fist over a satin hand
captures the last rush of air;
the train
of the distance
draws nearer on the orbit of trust
The
church locks herself up to prevent the needy
from stealing its chairs. the
monument is still
counting Fyodor's souls
while my soul kneels in the snow
Copyrighted
Rahman, Brigitte Arlette -2000
Copyright ©2000 brigitte arlette Rahman-All rights reserved.
