Utu Man (16) Some dead men

"Some dead men,"
my father complained,
"don't disown
their flesh and sadness,

don’t descend
through the sieve-like night,
they are afraid
of punishment,

so their skin
turns into liquid bronze,
and their heads
turn into burry rocks.

Gods pour silence-wrung water
into their draughty mouths,
but they spit it out.

Gods thrust sky-soaked bread
into their meandering throats,
but it rots there, unfed."

My father grumpily
leaned over his lapis plate.
A crimson butterfly
plashed in the teal blue rivulet.

Through the moth-eaten curtain
I could see one dead man
staring through the blood-rimmed light
as my father ate.

When everyone went to sleep,
I opened the door
holding a huge fresh apple
which the night had begun to gnaw.

I walked miles and miles
towards the dead man's eyes,
until the apple lost its red
and withered in my hand.

I fell like an empty vessel
on my threshold, cold, alone,
watching the planets sizzle
in the burning oil of dawn.

Вланес, 2008

Сертификат Поэзия.ру: серия 790 № 66662 от 18.12.2008

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