|
| |
a shaman of guatemala
I fear the shamans, great or small,
I saw one, with long black hair,
In a cemetery of the green Guatemala,
He danced among the colored tombs,
it was inhabited by the spirits of the dead,
Better to keep away from this king,
I have hidden behind graves,
He spoke to the spirits, to the blue ghosts
He agitated a sort of burning ossuary,
He screamed and danced, agitated like a nightmare,
I was for a moment frightened and petrified, seized
I preferred to run away without taking a picture.
The moon began to whiten on the grey pines.
Copyright ©
Yann Rolland
|
|