I have smelt the earth too long,
Gunpowder coughs,
Mucus on the red cloth,
The blood inconspicuous by its presence.
Fire in the stomach,
Water in the eyes,
Earth on the forehead,
Air in the open wounds,
Ether in the consciousness-light with the joy of death.
Walk on…
The wealth crushes me to death,
Or is it the poverty of thought?
The curer is cured by the winds of the jail,
The pickle is sour,
And the gun too sweet.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment