The Bleeding Sound

The sound blending in the cool ear, in the icy silence around, the sun seeping beyond the hot spastic horizon, weeping clouds in tornadic winds like screaming bells ringing their syllables, trying to get higher, the falling sight tracking down the sky's white into the night, tracking down the dreams of a medieval burg into its red stones, those dreams dying in the water, tracking down the religious songs into the clay, in oxygen chains. Poem by Marieta Maglas Variant The sound mingling with the icy silence in the cool ear; the sun penetrating the hot, spastic horizon; the clouds weeping in tornadic winds; the mouths opening like bells to ring their syllables; the falling sight tracking down the medieval burg's steps into its red stones, the dying dreams into the shower of the rain, the religious songs into the clay, and the oxygen chains of the day into the night.