In this country lightning quickens stone.
On the peaks that dominate the gorges
Ruined towers rise up
Like nimble torches of the mind
That revive the nights of high wind
The instinct of death in the quarryman's blood.
Every granite vein
Will unravel in his eyes.
The fire that will never be cured of us
The fire that speaks our language.
PoemWiki 评分
暂无评论 写评论