The Assassin's Tale Poem by Chris Zachariou
The Assassin's Tale
In a moment of confusion,
an uninvited shadow with
a medal dangling proudly
around his neck slithered
into the poet's bedroom.
Wounded verses poured
from the young man's mouth
into a leaden night of sorrow,
searching for the stolen moon.
It is dawn now in Alfacar;
the poet is serene and peaceful.
We can see the sky in his eyes,
but the sky is made of glass—
cracked and painted red.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/27/2024 10:33:28 PM # 1.0.0.1119
