Hours Poem by Vicente Huidobro
Hours
A small town
A train stopped on the plain
Deaf stars sleep
in every puddle
And the water trembles
Curtains to the wind
Night hangs in the grove
A lively drizzle
From the flower-covered steeple
Bleeds the stars
Now and then
Ripe hours
Drop on life
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
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4/25/2024 6:47:42 AM # 1.0.0.1119
