hauntings.
is there to be no reprieve
from the mental rack
of present hauntings,
ressurecting a persistent
and pervading past
into the more than endless,
endless night?
they loom, dressed in cloaks
and armed with countless daggers,
rusted in their deep graves
and plunge and contort the heart
into a shapeless mass
of free-floating anxieties -
dominating and dissecting
every half conscious syllable
and destroying all feeble endeavours
at rational articulation.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem