The Man Who Is Coming
***(The man who is coming)
A dissonant clamor of colorful voices
equal pebbles, days equal
like some rust crumble out of the eyes.
It is late to change myself and
I am the same again – with the essence
of an oak and a rose.
Dissolved in the heavens and with immovable shape of a heart.
A movement of light, before the Angel comes by your house.
On the island a hand with a cresset lit weighs.
/o, Nietzsche – a symbol of free will,
that
your road has cut off/,
and how much does the Hawaii weigh and the frames of the madwoman
a hand – an endless feast of deep tints
(why hasn’t Van Gogh been born yet?)
On that island I’d like the feast to be...
The man who is coming is whistling
lightly ...
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2011
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment