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.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
