Sunday, August 06, 2006

the hills
like poets put on
purple thought against
the

magnificent clamor of
day
tortured
in gold, which presently

crumpled
collapses
exhaling a red soul into the dark

so
duneyed master
enter
the sweet gates

of my heart
and
take
the rose,

which perfect
is
with killing hands

- E. E. Cummings -

2 Comments:

Blogger The Unknown said...

This is a wonderful poem I'd never seen before. Thanks for the post.
And I'm linked under A Kind of Magic!
JOY! :-) Thanks Love.
love

8/06/2006 11:49 PM  
Blogger luisa brehm said...

what can i do ???
i like your irreverence,
it's magic too ;-)))))))

8/07/2006 7:56 PM  

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