Poets’ Corner in Westmintser Abbey
The Old Poet’s Lament
Grey graves grinding the ground
shocking screeches merging into darkness
till death do us depart – oh my bones and flesh!
we will be soon apart – my young laughing
mouth just a wide wide wide
NOTHING in this world – no words
will ever be enough and still too much
to bear my angry VOICE raising
from my tomb while still alive and roaring
like a guardian angel after a thief
robbing the treasure cave.
I am a dead man walking down the streets
piercing the empty eyes of passers-by
with my naked body – stripped of its future.
The world is but a graveyard where
whispering ghouls suggest
a better way to dig our graves
and hand us spades.
Scratching my head I bid my friends farewell
going to a land where Poetry’s still alive
the land of nowhere – do I know its place?
Why listen to crumbling relics of the past
blabbering empty-eyed their verses
to the gawping crowd? Crows do better.
I was a young poet once – now just old
tired of white lies and black deeds.
My hands are empty of this world
my throat is empty of its words
empty-headed I walk through barren
fields of nothingness.
Let’s find a land where poets still can sing
and cry and dream within a golden sphere.
(C) 2012 by Francesca Diano RIPRODUZIONE RISERVATA