Marcello's bronze Pythian Sibyl,
larkspur painting by Henri Fantin-Latour
photo by Lorenzo
They called her old even long ago.
But she kept living on, coming down the same street
day after day. They began to reckon
her age in centuries, the way they do with forests.
There she was every evening,
standing in the same place
like the tower of a ruined fortress,
unbent and hollowed out by fire.
Words that, against her will,
swarmed within her,
now fly around her, shrieking,
while others that she still holds back,
lurk in the caverns of her eyes,
waiting for night.
New Poems
No comments:
Post a Comment
"Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night."
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
Go ahead, bloom recklessly!