She felt his hand,
the hand that had
the previous night
caressed that wife,
who, undeserving, smiles
and wallows in her lust.
It is the bloody money,
needless to say,
the bitch is cold as stone
I see her eyes, ice-blue
dead cinders, fuzzy strands
of useless gristle,
no flames, nor spark
just greed, opaque and still,
and here I am, the one who must
but cannot stay,
whom he called Honey
makes demands
a jolly whistle
transcends the dark
the telephone - 'it is for you, '
'oh, yes I will,
would give my life
would wait for you,
is this your hand
'oh, please, no light, '
I shall be sad
and then go mad.
This poem of searing emotion must be read aloud for fullest effect. Frankly, I am afraid of both of these women...! Great write, Herbert.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
What a howl of pain and indignation. The seed of a novel! Linda