Death Listens to Mahler
The night is heavy
Time slips by on muffled hooves
The night of operas is upon me
Sad operas of unimaginable Floridas
and cruel Carolinas
I am the man no one notices.
I have dined on my own sorrows
and have been weighed down by dreams.
That which crushes is the maker of wines
I am red
I am filled with green bottles
I am filled with corks bobbing on a blue-black sea
I am the one no one sees.
Death smokes his pipe and listens to Mahler from an old Victorla
He has been on my porch for a week and I
will not let him in.
So is the crush of age
Time slips by like the ringing of so many wet bells
and my wine has turned to vinegar.
Death Listens to Mahler
The night is heavy
Time slips by on muffled hooves
The night of operas is upon me
Sad operas of unimaginable Floridas
and cruel Carolinas
I am the man no one notices.
I have dined on my own sorrows
and have been weighed down by dreams.
That which crushes is the maker of wines
I am red
I am filled with green bottles
I am filled with corks bobbing on a blue-black sea
I am the one no one sees.
Death smokes his pipe and listens to Mahler from an old Victorla
He has been on my porch for a week and I
will not let him in.
So is the crush of age
Time slips by like the ringing of so many wet bells
and my wine has turned to vinegar.
Published in Stray Dog Review 2005
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem