Ernest Hemingway Poem by Tamiz Ludi

His fingers reek of the scent of prey.
A drop of red wine on white paper
spreads like a silent word.

In front, the sea. Behind, snow-faced mountains.
In between, a lone warrior
whose shield is forged from the metal of absence.

Fish skeletons hang from typewriter strings.
Each ting-tang sound pierces time
beneath a suspended sword.

From the contours of old age, from somewhere flies
that Santiago of The Old Man and the Sea.
The salt-laden breeze of the ocean

Evening falls as silently as a gun barrel.
And in his eyes, an unfinished bullfight
and the story of a river that never dries.