Paul Lierman


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A Thorn Among Roses

White saturates the air, whisks about and lands
On likewise white hair, and on grey bony hands.

The traveler shudders from within his mottled cloak
And rolls a wretched shoulder, his satchel dark with soak.

Alone he treks forever across the endless, barren plains
Bearing all alone his haunting burdens and his pains.

[Hata Bildir]