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in the last hours of him who lies untended
on a cold field at night, & sees the hard bright stars
above his upturned face, & says aloud ‘how strange … my life is ended.’—
if in the past he loved great music much, & knew it well,
let not his lapsing mind be teased by well-beloved but ill- remembered bars —
let the full symphony across the blood-soaked field
by him be heard, most pure in every part,
the lonely horror of whose painful death is thus repealed,
who dies with quiet tears upon his upturned face, making to glow w/ softness
the hard stars.

edna st. vincent millay (via fingerbruised)
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  • #illusion
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Ensoñación Poética

desdelaponia:

"Fuerza de coherencia que recibe el soñador cuando es , de veras, fiel a sus sueños, y cuando sus sueños ganan precisamente coherencia por sus valores poéticos". ( GASTON BACHELAR, Poética de la ensoñación)

Foto: SAROLTA BANimage

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  • 1 week ago
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THE BURNING SOUND OF NIGHT

the birds die at twilight

and the hero can’t stand

the roads sink like quicksand
the gospels lie as always
the birds die at twilight
and the planes explode in the sky
the teenage girls comb their
silky hair
the old man looks teary eyed at
a wall
the birds die at twilight
and the poets write second hand
lines
the bosses rub their hands together
in pleasure
the divorce courts are permanently
full
the birds die at twilight
and the dogs bark in the street
the villain is hard to see
the murderers kill for gods
the birds die at twilight
and the heart beats faster
the cage drips blood
the town is destroyed by the
city
the birds die at twilight
and the idols have no voice
the infants cry and scream
the firemen try to stop the
blaze
the birds die at twilight
here
on this tuesday evening
in sydney
and i remember all that i
have lost:
now that she is gone.

- Brenton Booth

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