Clay between my fingers,
thick, dusty streams of loss.
In the mud sits a bud,
its life fleeting. Over.
Look at the stars,
a pavement for wars!
Or the feelings we bear,
undressed, gasping for air.
Breathing in the wretched air,
nothing more do I wish for
than a wooden cross.
Who's heart now controls me?
Where have I left myself?
Dripping ink on my skin -
slow poison comes from within.
What we were meant to be ...
Was it ...
a haunting flutter
of a butterfly's wings?
YOU ARE READING
Värvitud sinised linnud
PoetryVärvitud sinised linnud on kurvad. Nad ei nuta, vaid raputavad tiibasid ja pritsivad värvi. Kogumik luuletustest nii inglise kui ka eesti keeles. / The colored blue birds are sad. They will not cry, but shake their feathers and spray paint. This is...
