Ultimatum

33

Something we cannot see, something we may not reach,
Something beyond clairvoyant vision of the years
Our senses, winged with spirit, wordlessly beseech.

Meanwhile rife rumourings of the earth are in our ears, —
The lonely beat of blood, the immanence of ghosts,
And foam's oblivion whitening under crumbling coasts.
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.