After The Ball Poem by robert dickerson
After The Ball
My magic coach was broken-
stilled and steeped in mud
wheel on axle lounged;
Crazily the car leaned
into darkness.
Horses-dead in their traces,
pillowed on lightning-scorched loins
each others heads,
piteous companions
come to such beds.
Footmen deserted-all fourteen.
The page sat and cried;
Through the windows' embrasure
whined and sighed the wind,
triumphant lorelei.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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8/10/2026 8:08:35 PM # rel_20260806T081513Z_580e7f4
