agonia english v3 |
Agonia.Net | Policy | Mission | Contact | Participate | ||||
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
||
![]() |
![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() | |||||
Article Communities Contest Essay Multimedia Personals Poetry Press Prose _QUOTE Screenplay Special | ||||||
![]() |
|
|||||
![]() |
agonia ![]()
■ Music ![]()
Romanian Spell-Checker ![]() Contact |
- - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2013-11-30 | |
my body like a bugle
I listen to the hot sea rolling over sand to the sky sticking to earth like a mellow pumpkin with all its stars far and away high over this mud gathered under the soles as big as a mountain there is my country the place where I can put my finger on warm bread on the star from the stag’s front on the bell’s rope in the old church from sunset towards sunrise I too I become whiter deep into my bones along with this only sun always full circle bound to be turning around my house as if it were the world’s beginning now
|
||||||||
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
|||
![]() | |||||||||
![]() |
Home of Literature, Poetry and Culture. Write and enjoy articles, essays, prose, classic poetry and contests. | ![]() | |||||||
![]() |
Reproduction of any materials without our permission is strictly prohibited.
Copyright 1999-2003. Agonia.Net
E-mail | Privacy and publication policy