Lighthouse

Is made of tears,
No bricks, no wals
you spin, haunting
your own fear

and recklessly try to climb
But day retreats, cowardly, in guilt,
Quilted with shy stars and mourning moon.

And I say, restore and watch
How streets glitter instead
Like fireflies caught in the rain.

Distant, but intense,
Those closer are warmer.
Snow rolls in between breasts
Of this curvy city,
Snow dry and crumpling like fine
wheat flour.

Feel the moment with your palm
As enters your nostrils, pinches and itches
Rub  it with your index finger.

I am a slug and I leave trails
For those lost among vowels
Sincerely meant but never fulfilled.

It’s not a broken promise, just
A miss, mismatch of right colors and
Puzzled shapes.

You’ll grow your own tale
When night falls
A tale you’ll trim with each coming dawn
And sew yourself in the mouth of the world.

Maja S. Todorovic


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8 Comments

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      • I looked up at Paul Celan. I have heard of him as a matter of fact. I have read a couple of his poems. I’d say he was very influenced by the surrealism movement back in his hey days. I felt sad as I read his Bio. He committed suicide which made me really sad and I cried. 😦

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      • I know, it’s a very sad story. He lost his family in the holocaust and most of his writing is influenced by the events he survived there. It’s interesting I’ve been reading his work in Serbian, my native language and it’s completely different experience than from reading it in English – an idea for a new blog post 🙂

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