Friday, July 23, 2010

Yaan III

I imaged it not
The streets I crossed
Nor what I saw
Childish fever
Like rash
On paper of glass
The old hopes
I not understood

Many centuries of old
Crowded in this thin salon
Speaking verses of unlove
Protruding above foam
Entering as air into my mouth
The entrails warm from the absence
Of traveller's lust
And yet another moment, the abode!

I heard it, though I wanted not
It filled the space it all
Just fragilemost hours
Dumb and drained
The tragic pleasure of let go
In a last breath
Intoxicated from lust
Laughter, my insight

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