THE DAZE OF DEATH Poem by Srecko Kosovel
THE DAZE OF DEATH
It is silent, it is dead, grey.
People flutter
from one stone to another.
Tired of fluttering.
Tired, deadened.
Their hearts are stone,
they cannot water their branches,
cannot cake in hope.
Their hearts are dry.
People sell furniture,
they pawn their hearts,
they pawn their reason
and hang themselves by the window
Suicides,
hanged men,
dangling by the windows of life.
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8/12/2026 1:42:24 PM # rel_20260811T123139Z_a98d49b
