by Pablo Neruda (fragment) This moment as smooth as a board, and fresh, this hour, this day as clean as an untouched glass -not a single spiderweb from the past: we touch the moment with our fingers, we cut it to size, we direct its blooming. It's living, it's alive: it brings nothing from yesterday that can't be redeemed, nothing from the past.
Round the table they gathered Each in their place Desperately wanting Ol' Bob to say grace For that was the rule That none would debase For when he was done They'd throw food at his face
1 comment:
Round the table they gathered
Each in their place
Desperately wanting
Ol' Bob to say grace
For that was the rule
That none would debase
For when he was done
They'd throw food at his face
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