Ernesto Mora
Ernesto Mora Poems
On Sunday through the witching hours, the midnight mass bells tolled.
Yet pews were empty and windows shuttered, no genuflection at the doors.
The altar stood bare, no widowed veils, litany was not intoned,
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Black heart torn apart, rend onto solitude,
In vain you palpate song of langor, misery intoned
My chanteuse darkest eve, on dying steed that gallops,
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In barren field, sitting upon marble black, painted upon a piteous facade, a farcity so contrived as to mock its own insipidity.
Along its flesh, torn are the moments as leaf from tomes, bidding the warmth that once kindled upon the very sun, a contemptuous parting.
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The Best Poem Of Ernesto Mora
The Ferryman Doth Come
On Sunday through the witching hours, the midnight mass bells tolled.
Yet pews were empty and windows shuttered, no genuflection at the doors.
The altar stood bare, no widowed veils, litany was not intoned,
hymns did not permeate the starless night, no vicar spoke from leather tomes.
And I alone in this lonely void, trepid among the graves cold stones,
wept against the apathy on the pillars whittled from brittle bone.
Amidst the silhouettes was I derided, the epitaphs disremembered me,
the iron gates within the winds, whistled sacrilegious melody,
and from within the softened soil came impious discourtesy.
The ferryman doth come, two pence upon my eyes,
one oar in Acheron, one oar in Cocytus.
The ferryman doth come, two pence upon my eyes,
the bells toll the price for hell's toll, two pence for my demise.
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