My city, my other love, I will not write
about you tonight. I will not write of heaps
of dead bodies, of numberless graves, of snow and
rain together, the cold art of forgiveness,
the dying of the dying.
My city, my dark disease, I will not write
about you tonight. I will not write of nights
of vigil, the cold stare of longing, the dismal
evenings, frosty blood soaked afternoons, the fallacious
art of hope, the dust of pain.
My city, my tormentor, I want to forget you,
leave behind, alongside my books, the double ache
of love requited and unrequited, the mendacious
sellers of dreams, the false dawn, the vague art
of vermilion skies, fake art.
My city, my hundred thousand nights, the endless
litter of burnt candles mixed with the bones
of my ancestors, the canopy of those endless roofs,
that sage afternoon, that hopeless morning.
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7 comments:
and how much I like this! the beginning of each stanza, that powerful repetition, is so beautiful.
strange, it must be the time of cities, I've come here just after reading swiss's poem about the old city, couldn't believe my eyes when I discovered your poem too.
Roxana thanks!
I like the idea that the city is a love and (perhaps because of this?) a disease.
may be the affinity with some places, the ideas behind those ideas, the longing of longing.
Kubla, Your poems come out of my mouth so nicely. Nevermind the deeper meanings. Possibly sad, tragic meanings. The iliteration moves through my mumbles and hits my ears in a pleasant way. That sound is what makes me feel your longing.
Folded Hi
Thanks for visiting and reading.
woah- this is really moving. The pathos flows effortlessly from the poem.
ps- I cant quite figure out what you mean by "the dying of the dying" -I think it means- the thriving of the dying, as in more and more are dying. Maybe its just me - dont mind - keep up the good work. :)
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