Nero CaroZiv Poems

The moon reddish color looms through horizon's fog
In the dancing mist the hazy meadow sleeps
By the green lush a reptilian creature calls his mate the frog
There where a shadowy movement stealthily creeps
...

Hills and dales of ancient land, bleak, barren and glaring
Where my thoughtless, happy hours beguiling childhood strayed,
How the sand with ages of patina on me is warring,
Howl, moan winds of the past above my tufted shade!
...

How does she smile like that little swamp crocodile
To improve her lure, her seductive shining tail,
And how her sweet words are vile as the crocodile waters of the Nile
On every comparable, measurable scale!
...

In storm and in tempest we two parted
No grieving silence but rage and sour anger over dry tears
Souls once harmoniously united departed broken hearted
With agony to sever for years
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The shade of death is made of a canopy piercing icicles cold
That mortal eyes ache upon its view and cannot comprehend or behold
Yet when mortal eyes are in eternal darkness closed
And death, cold and pale upon the length limbs stretched, reposed
...

It is that time of my life when in me I sadly behold
Around me merely few yellow leaves, or none do still at late autumn hang
Upon those boughs which like my rusted bones and brittle wrinkled skin shake against the cold,
Bare ruined waning choirs, who were late to migrate, the sweet birds their melodies sang.
...

The seasons gather flowers from the rain
And bring the firstling to the flock
And in the dusk of dawn the unrelenting clock
beats out the little dreams from the eyes of drowsy human
...

She stood there on the street not too far, as pale as Greek statues stands
Or more like cunning and fierce fire Cleopatra when she turned at bay,
And felt her strength above the savage Roman sway,
So did she stand and did feel the aspic writhing in her hands.
...

IS it possible that I cannot die, I who drank with delight
From the cup of the crescent orbiting moon
And as the birds sing and migrate to the West
I watched them loving the scented nights of June.
...

When I die who would stand at my grave and weep
I would be there rotten, Is It really a calm pleasant sleep?
But If I could I would rather be a thousand winds that in the meadow blow.
Or I prefer the diamond glints on pre-spring snow.
...