Treasure Island

Peter S. Quinn


From My Room


From my room I hear
The wind blow
Strings from icy harp
Filling the dark
Now outside

The morning comes with night
And leaves with night
My heart is in dark
Like flickering light
Pounding on and on
Through to dreams gone

In the dark clouded sky
With beams of low sun flight
Time slowly passes by
With shadows left to right

From my room I hear
Where I now dwell
The dark voices near
Of iciness and its cartel

Strings from icy harp
Filling the dark
Now outside

*Federico García Lorca once wrote:

“From my room I hear
The water jet
A finger of grapevine…”

Submitted: Sunday, January 27, 2008
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