1 min read
Слушать(AI)Cassandra
To me, one silly task is like another.
I bare the shambling tricks of lust and pride.
This flesh will never give a child its mother,— Song, like a wing, tears through my breast, my side,
And madness chooses out my voice again,
Again.
I am the chosen no hand saves:
The shrieking heaven lifted over men,
Not the dumb earth, wherein they set their graves.
Louise Bogan
Louise Bogan (August 11, 1897 – February 4, 1970) was an American poet. She was appointed the fourth Poet Laureate to the Library of Congress in
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
Last Hill In A Vista
Come, let us tell the weeds in How we are poor, who once had riches, And lie out in the sparse and Pastures that the cows have trodden,
Roman Fountain
Up from the bronze, I Water without a Rush to its rest in air,
Leave-Taking
I do not know where either of us can turn Just at first, waking from the sleep of each other I do not know how we can bear The river struck by the gold plummet of the moon, Or many trees shaken together in the darkness We shall wish...
Man Alone
It is yourself you In a long rage, Scanning through light and Mirrors, the page,
