Wasteland Poem by Nastasimir Franovic

Like a woman without children.
Solitary stands an old vine.
Ghostly like a night shadow.
Cursed like a bad crop.
Seeking vein of a barren soil.
May be this is last morning dew she cries for.
No virtue of a virgin
to tight its branches with her own hair.
No sun to shine over it.
No birds to steel the grapes.
Nobody will drink its sweat.
Somebody will take it on blistered bare palms.
Far away.
Who knows where.
Wasteland.
Left solitary, ghostly, cursed in a stony grave.
Stony monsters will tear out an old vine.

Nastasimir - Miško Franović