"The poem comes in the form of a blessing_'like rapture breaking on the mind,' as I tried to phrase it in my youth. Through the years I have found this gift of poetry to be life-sustaining. Life-enhancing, and absolutely unpredictable. Does one live, therefore, for the sake of poetry? No, the reverse is true: poetry is for the sake of the life."
Stanley Kunitz
We treaded through the graves, on the cracking leaves
of a cold november day
on the otherwise silent paths
till we lost all measure of present and past
As we reached the monumental stone
a girl started smearing red on her lips
while the dark delectable chocolate
melted down in our mouth
And the girl kissed Oscar's stone
some things are never clear
even on such a bright day
a subtle, soft colored chimera
hanged there in the air
We took it in
our earthly souls wandering among the buried ones
Life's pulse playing a clarinet concerto
Music of words wandering into the vastness of death
the way came to an end
as it always does
in real life
careless of unborn things
longing to live their time of beauty
and to die
before maturity robs its dreamlike quality.
Flora
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