Explore Poems GO!

End Of The Comedy

Eleven o’clock, and the curtain falls.
The cold wind tears the strands of illusion;
The delicate music is lost
In the blare of home-going crowds
And a midnight paper.


The night has grown martial;
It meets us with blows and disaster.
Even the stars have turned shrapnel,

Fixed in silent explosions.
Read More

READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
COMMENTS OF THE POEM