Whatever I looked at was alive, everything had a voice,
but I never found out were you a friend, an enemy,
was it winter, summer? Smoke, singing, midnight heat.
I wrote thousands of lines. Not one told me.
but I never found out were you a friend, an enemy,
was it winter, summer? Smoke, singing, midnight heat.
I wrote thousands of lines. Not one told me.
Anna Akhmatova, from “Fragment, 1959”
Source:
proustitute
5/26/12 — 9:08pm
And now
I want to be left
without words. To know how to lose
what is being lost.
I want to be left
without words. To know how to lose
what is being lost.
Mirta Rosenberg, Portrait Ended
Source:
awritersruminations
5/18/12 — 4:26pm
What is left after this?
what can death loose in me
after your embrace?
your touch,
your limbs are more terrible
to do me hurt.
What can death mar in me
that you have not?
what can death loose in me
after your embrace?
your touch,
your limbs are more terrible
to do me hurt.
What can death mar in me
that you have not?
H. D., Fragment 68
Source:
awritersruminations
5/17/12 — 4:20pm
