Friday, September 18, 2015

Alicja Kuberska

(Not) my poem

I wrote a few words and tied them permanently.
Reflections and emotions created an immaterial line.
I uttered the last sentence, and he flew like a zephyr.
He kissed my lips lightly and left, he walked away to strangers.

He slipped into their eyes, where the tears are born.
He whispered some lovely words to the hearts and they quivered tenderly.
He woke up the sleeping consciences, bored by a daily routine.
He consoled a very sad lady, called Melancholy.

At night he flew into the sky, parted the heavy curtains of clouds.
The stars glittered and the moon lip up the paths of lovers.
The tender singing  of a nightingale mingled in the abyss of darkness
And sunk in the lovingly swooning scent of flowers .

Sometimes this unfaithful lover returns to me
- Beloved son of the muse, not my child any more

1 comment:

  1. This is a very effective poem about how arts may take on a life on their own with little or no relationship to the creators' intent.


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