Rubble of Our Church
A girl I knew, who loved January as much as May,— January. I can't brush off the
Silence without messing up my hair, it's a strand from a lazy web,
And a year has gone by
Since we last hung the weatherman
Begging for prescience
Beneath his kicking feet
[
]
It conquers nothing
But the world
Changes too fast, how the taxi comes and whisks the heart clean
, then, I do believe the wind must have been beautiful once,
Now stripped of a body.
And here, the sun also rises
Beneath our kicking
Feet.
Poetry by Charlie fan
Read 766 times
Written on 2008-11-06 at 20:52
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