Circling - Poem by Pavol Janik
Evenly and fast
always going round
it dreams about itself.
The old unbearable fan.
Its head makes the circles
of a drunkard's breath.
It imagines it is a propeller.
It sees and hears.
It knows more than the others.
Through its racket
regardless it takes the words
of the speeches of the café tribunes.
For so long it has belonged to the technical museum,
but not till now has it entered literature.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
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Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You