this night is beyond repair
not by footsteps,
nor by prayer.
the torn weeping of a cherub
is heard by time above itself.
we gnawed holes into the age,
rats with tin spines,
strangers in an orphaned shack —
not a crumb left for tomorrow.
and you, tin spider,
will you twist, will you live?
where is the blood, the wound in the heart?
where — the tender quiver?
this night is beyond repair
© Copyright: Даниэль Зорчин, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125041004644
Свидетельство о публикации №125041004644
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