Death in potato fieldsDeath never jumped on me, like it does on other people;
Unless that time, when a man died in the potato fields;
I think he was my grandfather -
you see, sometimes my memory gets blurry
and things that passed, seem to have perished
and left no trace or ashes on the way out.
And for some reason - all I did was laugh,
when he collapsed on the ground he was working so hard on.
Potatoes seemed important, while life was slipping away.
And that's how it is, isn't it?
Death never haunted me, like it haunts houses,
that keep losing souls to the unknown, for no reason;
It just hung on a wire - taking everything
and making it estranged, leaving me jealous of their misery.
People died over the phone, while I went on
as if I never knew them, never stopping at warning signs
- all in white, all in pearls;
And for some reason - all I felt was a story,
that wasn't even my own.
And that's how it is, isn' it?
It was always there, behind the curtains -
while I was standing in front, playing with crowns
and adoring the crowd - with my face to the lights
and my back to philosophy.
Like my father's back was - towards predictions,
when he was stabbed to death on the Ides of March.
March into graves like soldiers of a Roman legion,
For death is a certainty, containing centuries of sorrow
- flashing by, like an army of flies..
Poetry by FrancescaLuca
Read 734 times
Written on 2008-04-04 at 13:09
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