by Marcin Malek
And there...
unlikely as in our world
cold mountains peaks
are grab by top
towards the foot of vale
where springs are flowing
from oceans depth
In to the rivers lair
no bird can freely fly
without the wings wide spread
theirs haven is liquefied
in kind of melted lead
they pulled their eyes outside
and underneath of deepest gulf
they hid...
theirs sins beneath the eyelids cut
instead of hairs they bred
subcutaneous larvae
lice have eat their lips
burned to dust
by meaning
of an imposturous act
their children are as old as oaks
already turned in to a fairytale
and mothers so bravely young
that all their tears
where shed at once
before almighty set aside
a hem of brittle sky - tornd apart
they done such things
that we shall never dream
they fetch such truth
that is unseen
by holiest of the holly books
they do prevail upon
nor love nor death
or madness all along
they stayed as wild
as we consider ourselves
so rapt and not enough to state
- so civilize
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Marcin Malek (born February 24, 1975) in Warsaw, Poland) is a Polish/Irish poet, writer, playwright, journalist, photographer. Published in: „Fronda”, „Tygiel Kultury”, „Akcent”, „Nowe Państwo”, „Stosunki Międzynarodowe”, „Opcja na prawo”, Leinster Express, Winner of the annual award of "Poetry&Paratheatre" journal (category: poem of the Year) for year 2012, (work: „Bieg – Czyli list do współczesnych”/"Run - a letter to the present"). Since 2006 lives in Ireland.
Last updated November 12, 2015