The Play of Mourning

Everything Is Liquid
And Can’t Be Neither Griped By Mattock
Nor Put Into The Plough.
Everything Is Waterlogged By The Colour Of Wine
And It Is Splashing Over By The Waves.
They Heap Up To The Sky,
Up To Evil Sunset,
Pageant As Rich Supper
And Pompous As Wedding.

But Death Has A Wish
To Dunk Its Finger Into The Water,
Into Invisible Traces Of Tears.

Soil Is Slowly Absorbing Them.

Translated From Croatian

More Shayari by Tomislav Raum
27 Jun 2008 No Comment

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