The Last Stage Poem by RIC BASTASA
The Last Stage
a crooked line straightens itself
finally with a beeping sound, not once,
penetrating, traveling to an insistence,
it is turned off. A sob from a little girl
beside the bed. A punch on the wall
of a man's fist. A white blanket covering
a pair of eyes. Blankness.
a caravan of nomads, a camel a desert
a dark night, full moon, a distant call and then
sleep and silence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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9/24/2024 12:32:31 AM # 1.0.0.1119
