The Painter Poem by Matthew Buchwald
The Painter
A cat runs away
It swallows the stars like a sacred charm,
It has always been old
Immune to the cold
It has always scorned daylight.
Holes of seedlings punctured by the moon.
All the thorns on the hedges agree,
They never fail to agree
Any idea, any feeling
And frost freezes in their ears when they agree.
A woman with ardent fingers inspects the sea of hate,
She disposes of its oddities
As thorns do in a hedge,
As cats do with their claws
And women in a trance.
As thorns do in a hedge, As cats do with their claws And women in a trance. very fine poem you begin with the cat.. ends with the women in trance., thank you for your great power of imagination.. tony
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/18/2024 1:47:51 AM # 1.0.0.1119
A woman with ardent fingers inspects the sea of hate, She disposes of its oddities As thorns do in a hedge, As cats do with their claws And women in a trance as thorns do in a hedge. great comparisons. s very good poem. tony