The consolation of Bach
By Itane Vero
Sat, 09 Nov 2013
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2 comments
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How a tear slips from his grey eyes.
Like slow water from a dry wall.
It's the only thing that moves of him.
He just sits. Like a discarded chair,
Like a broken lamp. An antique pipe.
His room. A cage with a parakeet.
The King James Bible. An aquarelle.
Afternoon light tickles his eyelids.
Without a signal, without a warning.
He trudges to the dusty harmonium.
And starts to play. Pure, passionate.
'Dazu ist erschienen der Sohn Gottes.'
How a tear slips from his red eyes.
Like swift water from silky flowers.
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Comments
I think your poetry has a
Permalink Submitted by Ray Schaufeld on
I think your poetry has a 'pure passionate' quality to it all the time and here it matches the topic Elsie
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