Letter Of Parables Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai

Letter
Of
Parables
Snakes
That
Breathe
Sweets
Scented
Airs
And
Mists
Roaming

I shall call their phone to check
I shall not want a medicine that might harm
Hear, hear.

On
My
Fingers
I
Pressed
My
Palm

And said: Two.
Either this or that.

I shall be comfortable with either.

Then I shall like too
The winter winds though cold
Stringing as a violin round the corners of the
Ancient buildings.

I yearn to be in the Cemetery
This time
This hour.

My heart will break I calculate
It be too thin
Now
And
Desolate.

In to the marsh of Time myriads of figures wade.

Black figures
Sinking with every pace.

The wisdom bird sits with eyes
Half-open
Half closed
And makes not noise.

The nightingale sings.

The lamp-post swings.