My poetry is as brisk fire
elapses between my fingers like a rosary
I do not pray because I am a poet of doom
that is silent, at times, the pains of childbirth within the hour, are the poet
shouting and playing with her cries,
am the poet who sings and can not find words,
are dry straw over which beats the sound
is the lullaby that makes the children cry,
is vainglory, which drops ,
the metal surface of a long prayer
grief of the past he has not seen the light.
Alda Merini
0 comments:
Post a Comment