Time comes in waves here, a sickness, one
day after the other rolling on;
I move up, it's called
awake, then down into the uneasy
nights but never
forward. The roosters crow
for hours before dawn, and a prodded
child howls & howls
on the pocked road to school.
In the hold with the baggage
there are two prisoners,
their heads shaved by bayonets, & ten crates
of queasy chicks. Each spring
there's race of cripples, from the store
to the church. This is the sort of junk
I carry with me; and a clipping
about democracy from the local paper.
Margaret Atwood
comentários (2)
belíssimo:)
Por Eduardo Serra Lopes | novembro 15, 2008 4:40 PM
em 15/11/2008 16:40
Espero que goste igualmente do terceiro da série, caro Eduardo Serra Lopes :)
Por ana r. | novembro 15, 2008 10:21 PM
em 15/11/2008 22:21