poet Liāna Langa

Liāna Langa

The Ones Who Don't Belong 1.

I wake suddenly from deep sleep.
In the forest's undergrowth my shadow roams.
Hundred-thousand-year greedy muzzles suck
moisture clinging to a vessel of mist.


Like a large wet green tea leaf
the sky swims into my eyes - the narrows
do not frighten it. Star ships
nestle close to me, the wreck.


I don't know what the beasts will tell me,
don't understand why my visitors are silent.
I was your key, the new wine
that the devout locked away in dark barrels.


In a trance the dark breathes, dissolves,
casts in my features other reflections
of other bygones, other lives
and then inside a large part of me dies.


I suddenly wake from a deep sleep
as the grains of your hail erode my face.
Someone in an owl's voice says: God
but your hand is empty, empty.

Translated by: Margita Gailītis

Poem Submitted: Wednesday, February 1, 2017

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Comments about The Ones Who Don't Belong 1. by Liāna Langa

  • Chinedu DikeChinedu Dike (2/1/2017 6:14:00 PM)

    Lovely poem, well articulated and nicely penned in good diction with conviction. Thanks for sharing.

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  • Ratnakar Mandlik (2/1/2017 6:46:00 AM)

    grains of your hail erode my face
    Great conceptualization. Thanks for sharing.10 points.

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