Poemme Posted August 5 Share Posted August 5 Something white passed by below the stone arch, the long vaulted alley where they cut and stacked the wood head high. They were whispering in the doorways, I heard the finches singing, still in their cages, the sound of useless wings, something sad and muffled, like the end coming, I think, a sound they hear, the ones on the bed, waiting for the end, of flames, the burning wood. The watchman on the parapet, he managed the dead, his pocked face, black eyes, he’s a reasonable man, he takes what’s fair, what’s his. When the wood burns, the flames breathing the air, they take flight across the river, that quick rush in the air. The watchman, what does he mean when he raises an arm or was he adjusting the torn sleeve of his coat? Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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