|
2:35 A.M, |
The grass is shaking
but not because the storm outside;
it’s filled up with the red ants of
death - so pure, so alive,
and it is 2:35 in the morning
like every god-damned day is
2:35 in the morning,
and I take a peek outside
waiting for some revenge
upon my view on the world affairs;
but nothing is changed:
the red ants are running upon my
drunken arms
heading for my heart,
singing sweet songs of maidens
and children dead at birth,
and the storm outside is quiet now;
and the ants, my ants of death
are running away from me,
screaming with their little mouths:
“There is no soul inside”,
and finally I sleep with no remorse,
the perception of tomorrow lost
like a roach in garbage,
the ants are burning in my dream,
and I am happy for a while,
feeling mortal, too fragile,
so far away without moving a muscle,
sinking into the lie of
the new day.
copyright 2009
Peycho
Kanev |
