THE SUNLIGHT boils beneath my lids Poem by Antonio Gamoneda
THE SUNLIGHT boils beneath my lids
THE SUNLIGHT boils beneath my lids.
From a nightingale engrossed in ash, from its black
musical entrails, a tempest rises. The cries descend to the ancient
cells, I behold living whips,
the beasts' unmoving stare, its icy needle in my heart.
All is an omen. The light is shadow's marrow: the insects
are going to die in the spark-plugs of dawn. This
is how meanings burn in me
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/22/2024 6:57:57 AM # 1.0.0.1119
