Death of the Mountain

/, Blesok no. 12/Death of the Mountain

Death of the Mountain

Voicing the Heights
Death of the Mountain
Sower. Flower

In the field planted with questions
I answered as if before the Supreme Court,
I am rarely alone
but opposite me I am always Alone.

My answers ploughed
and the field became fertile
and the river started inscribing
various stories on it.

I don’t run away and am not scared by diseases,
when they see me
they stupefy their look as in frescos,
they bleed in every leap year.

In the morning a cock’s head sings a hymn.
My body is a plough pulled by snakes
furrowing the field,
uprooting new questions.

In my right arm there unfurls a whip
and gives way to knowledge
which I hide under the shield with my left arm
and don’t ever want to reveal it in full.

When I descend in the night
my field becomes my Amulet,
I press it, I hug it
I disappear in it.

AuthorJanko Ninov
2018-08-21T17:23:56+00:00 January 1st, 2000|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 12|0 Comments