mud
There are silences
living things bloom and blossom in the lives.
through the streets you know and do not run;
reside in the secret of the moon and between the branches of the mulberry becomes
smell. There are silences
covering the nights
leaving uncovered only the sides.
remain in God's footsteps echo in the silence, where everything takes us back
as drawn from the same speech, the genesis of a day
where a woman kneeling on time, on dry ground crying
has created an offshoot of mud.
Beatrice Niccolai
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Monday, April 21, 2008
Wittnauer Compared To Rolex
the free flowering of a wild meadow
I'd say
"now I dive into the sea I want to take a flower
Understanding the world of poets
is down to the depths
there and start running as if it were largest of the prairies.
The poet is not always true
never will reveal his top secret, even if you
condemn the infamy of the lie,
E 'already dead too many times
for because thou kill.
It seems to be lost in the sea while you run and where you
Dimple waves,
will emerge from the darkest depths,
the free flowering of a wild meadow
Beatrice Niccolai
I'd say
"now I dive into the sea I want to take a flower
Understanding the world of poets
is down to the depths
there and start running as if it were largest of the prairies.
The poet is not always true
never will reveal his top secret, even if you
condemn the infamy of the lie,
E 'already dead too many times
for because thou kill.
It seems to be lost in the sea while you run and where you
Dimple waves,
will emerge from the darkest depths,
the free flowering of a wild meadow
Beatrice Niccolai
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Small Spots Of Blood In Knickers
dressed in white in the flight of wild ducks
Some nights I wear all the nakedness of my years. I am the truth
of a bare tree and a promise that I carry with me before he started
from the eternal.
some evenings I feel all the evil of life, as a labor
that I can not stand, like an ancient
promise to keep.
.
wild ducks in flight
rises as distracted by the noise in the reeds
another day.
Beatrice Niccolai
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)