A poem by P.B. Robosa

To An Old Statue of Barlin

I'm seen all around as everyone knows
on my shoulders the birds launch to fly,
and my feet are crowded with swallows,
the last stop to the place where they die.

My pillow is the moon slowly rising,
and the wind sprinkle my clothes with sand,
these eyes that seek out what meaning,
to the torn and forgotten toils of my hands.

my pulse muffled and chained and mellow,
someday it will burst out through this cast
like flowers planted amidst grass down below,
someday picked, like names from your past.

Till then, I'll hide my soul in this rock,
With the spit and scratches in the paint,
And yield to the flood of your neglect,
With my proud demeanor well spent.

And you may cover me then with darkness,
sweep my base with a flick of your wrist.
Under my shadow, this accursed harness--
To watch over you and all that there is.

No comments: