Attila Poem by Darlan M Cunha
Attila
*
Of the bread that the devil has always kneaded
and distribute, at the pass of Attila's horse,
until you get in the bad mood stuck on
the subway tracks, and also
with the saturation of the cemetery and the jail,
live today all, measured by ideals
towards an impossible joy for those in this village.
No clump of grass opens around Margaret.
***
DeepL.com, Germany. March 2020
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/25/2024 9:22:03 PM # 1.0.0.1119
