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,
...

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,
...

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.
...