The Haste Of Days Poem by Bengt O Björklund
The Haste Of Days
An abrupt secular silence of sirens
echoes with devastating danger,
staggers into halls of fractal consideration,
falls short at mercury midnight
where bright titans call for moderation.
Never before did the whispered moon
rip the core of mortal serendipity
with such a definite intent,
never before did it occur to me
that the haste of days is hereditary.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/23/2024 7:20:12 PM # 1.0.0.1119
