"Scary raven, do not hover
In the sky above my head".
Russian folk song
The raven is raving. I have no use
of prophets like you. Non-being lingers.
My life, so infertile, so sandy, so loose,
continues to slip through my fingers.
The crook, you foretold me an ultimate null:
no eagernesses, no eagers,
though death, so frustrating, so banal, so dull
continues to slip through my fingers.
"The time", said the raven. "Behold how it will
be over according to figures",
though time, so phantasmal, so false, so unreal
continues to slip through my fingers.
Categories:
eagers, death, life, time,
Form: Rhyme
as soon as the banishment in a forest comes to an end
all the rain-drops come to the ball-room with unfolded
umbrellas over their heads
the slumber of the adjourned dialogues
also breaks
all the blossoms of the cucurbitaceous plant
that are supposed to open their petals
have gone to the majlis of the aquatic-plants
riding on a wrong-minibus
then a photograph of the dinner- party
is to be found out and brought for the saliva-gland
there is no voice of the palms of the open-window
of his own
even then
each and every the air-hostess eagers to listen
to the song of boat-rowing from him
here the duck of the mid-noon
is engaged in pleasure
with the flower-vase of class x
their drinking-bowl is flying
along the flame of the rail-line
though it does not bear any grief
to the large lake
that is wetted with perspiration
there is no delta of misspelling as well
it has only the smoking of thousand cusec
all the day and night
Categories:
eagers, fantasy
Form: Prose Poetry