Jobs Poem by Aris Sira
Jobs
A black shroud hugs
And the music lowers to a whisper
The darkness striked with silver
Feet picking up dust from the floor
The glass broken by silent screams
The blade streaked in red
The misery business, the path tread
Ends in laughter
And the silence quiets bitter
The job done
The night yet young
The horse whines begging to ride again
The horsemans blade of blood never dims
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/2/2024 3:14:34 PM # 1.0.0.1119
