Bruxas
no matter what the good witches do
on the forest floor
the spells are over
and the firewood they burn
or maple leaves that kneaded
laugh they give
will never stop the procession of shadowy figures
they will never stop the piling up of sacks of bones,
the eternal dirt on the wall of the old house
the closed face of the lord of days
the black birds perched on the posts:
a man only finds remedy for his martyrdom
on these strange roads
at the entrance of the bowels
to be alone.
Copyright © Marco Chies | Year Posted 2022
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