“My sisters,” she says,
“aren’t you one woman?”
Your pale lips, proud breasts
propped by love,
your sad thighs men adored,
the woods where so many springs were planted. Now in that ancient
withered chest, the river of years drifts through heavy dusk.
With children grown, men leave.
You walk toward death and deep night.
As a slim poplar bends its youth into decay
your love fulfills itself in pain and absolution.
Ah, tender lips, golden skin!
Damn the pebble’s immortality—
compared to perpetual embrace, isn’t the inscription on a stone
darker, colder than earth mixed with your hair?
PoemWiki 评分
暂无评论 写评论