A Tailor Called Sorrow Poem by Betti Alver
A Tailor Called Sorrow
Yesterday in drizzling rain
on the road,
depression came
with its scissors open.
He put unhappy shirts
around the necks
of children,
and stitched black markings
on the lives of others.
Around the red faces
the tailor called sorrow
let a cloth with death silk
in it
hang,
and mingled white basting thread
in their hair.
Monday, July 11, 2016
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5/5/2024 2:47:30 PM # 1.0.0.1119
