Bad Dreams

Bad Dreams

Bad Dreams
Lack of Energy

An air-raid happens to us in a strange town.
The confused passers-by run and push.
We have nothing: no address, no map and no plan.
We use a crushed newspaper for a guide.

Orange flames spread across the sky.
As we run, the houses behind us go down.
Trees of smoke rise from the holes of explosions
and yet hardly any of this emits a sound.

Skeletons from the museum drive the ambulances.
The theatres are leaving town with the backdrops.
We sit in the park naked, our shoes unlaced,
talking about the moon and the celestial bodies of the stars.

AuthorVlada Urošević
2018-08-21T17:24:00+00:00 January 1st, 1999|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 06|0 Comments