domingo, 11 de janeiro de 2015

Fresco


she called out for father
but it was mother who came.

the walls of the city had been painted
blood red.
 scenes of destruction were everywhere,
  and families  indulging
   their last supper, a field strewn
  with wine goblets, plates broken,  
  bones of boar and quail.
  (this was before they invented
        perspective.)
lastly a vision,
a dark coiling corridor
and a single atrium,
  splattered in
light

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