I can hear the Clocks.
on the whitish slate of my palm
is a bizarre toy
made of insects
And the other,
the Clock of the World
deafens my eardrums
with its fluid wings.
in the Memory of the Present,
I feel so strange,
a new-born child and dead
in the very same second
with the soft sun.
smears the Clock nooks
and its condor wings
into the fluid.
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Comments about this poem (Raw Feelings by Olimpia Sarb )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
(12 May 1828 – 9 April 1882)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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Edgar Allan Poe
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(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
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