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The terrorist


A man gets on the bus,
finds a seat and sits down
and tucks his suitcase under it.

The bus leaves with people
swinging in the bus,
hands are squeezing the strap,
trying to catch the rhythm
of the bus.

A little girl smiles at him,
he gets pale,
clears his throat.

After a while,
he pushes the bus signal,
the bus stops.

He lifts himself up,
wiggles to the door
and is released by it.

The bus leaves with a sigh

and blows up.

The girl is buried
in this Inferno,
protected by her mother's arms.
+++

A Crowded Trolley-Car

The rain's cold grains are silver-gray
Sharp as golden sands,
A bell is clanging, people sway
Hanging by their hands.
Supple hands, or gnarled and stiff,
Snatch and catch and grope;
That face is yellow-pale, as if
The fellow swung from rope.
Dull like pebbles, sharp like knives,
Glances strike and glare,
Fingers tangle, Bluebeard's wives
Dangle by the hair.
Orchard of the strangest fruits
Hanging from the skies;
Brothers, yet insensate brutes
Who fear each other's eyes.
One man stands as free men stand,
As if his soul might be
Brave, unbroken; see his hand
Nailed to an oaken tree.

Elinor Morton Wylie




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Läst 20 gånger
Publicerad 2022-09-29 11:34



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