Wheat Ears – Selected Poems

Second Canto

As the new language of despair

formulates new gothic phrases

I start filling my canvas with dark

red carts carrying cadavers

lonely crosses to the mountain peak

remainders of her flattened breast

finches firmly discolored amid the

shadow of magnolia leaves

orphan sound of a lyre’s suffering

scolds dawn when quietness

amplifies the petty and stingy Where

in hell is a grand goal to be followed?

Where in hell is a maimed soldier

to be consoled? Who the devil will keep a

black-veiled widow company

through dark hours of her

soul’s nightmare? Nothing reveals

a snip of shredded light other than

indifference of the neighbor who

trims junipers with a deep

satisfaction of sedentary life stitched

on his t-shirt’s nonsense logo and

what’s left for old Death to do

but toy with the ladybug

on His hand and enjoy

a disjointed farce of the eminent

teen who thinks He knows

everything? Are they not all alike?

The last hurrah comes from hedging

trees and withering hibiscus asserting:

we can do better



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