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Christiana Sciberras Poem
These eyes are looking at me
trying to escape from the claws of pain,
the open hands with the same aim,
but my white hair is all they can see,
and all they can hear is
my soul, saying,
"I want to be with my paper taken from a tree",
and when I am with the latter,
all I say is
"I want to be with my iron dream".
The dream of blood, of iron
is mine... forever
Forever
my dream...
Copyright © Christiana Sciberras | Year Posted 2005
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Details |
Christiana Sciberras Poem
... we are building that famous tower
are we going to use different languages?
and so all our efforts would fall?
or, are we going to create the round tower?
The way to the top of the hill
at three o'clock in the afternoon
after falling three times
in the three scorching suns, the Earth opens,
it redens, dries up, dies.
Maybe from behind the wall of our tower,
two days after,
white smoke would rise,
stright up, like that in the desert,
not of the empty haze...
But of the begining
of our love... and poetry...
Copyright © Christiana Sciberras | Year Posted 2005
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