Point
G
Gerrit Achterberg
0
Altın Yaprak
The window is dead on this side.
It doesn't have any other side.
The world becomes a wall,
against which I move,
a fly, a thin fated sweep.
The wall approaches me;
the attic and the floor:
flat parallelopipedum,
trampled matchbox and
the pit of Edgar Allan Poe.
You, belovèd, took dimension with you
out of my existence. I am alone.
Bu şiiri puanla
Henüz puan verilmemiş