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Poem

Srijato

PABLO AND THE POSTMAN

The postman you had befriended
Gathers dry leaves now and
Sings an unfamiliar tune to himself
 
I’m looking for sustenance in end-rhymes
I’ve bought sleep, a broken moon, wicker chairs
Wondering how long it will be to tranquillity
 
The lake whose shores you used to wander on
Is as dry as a stone which I’ve put in a ring
In the worthless hope that my luck will turn
 
Colour-coordinated scraps of flattery in the morning
Solitary walks in the afternoon . . . How will I
Write you letters in my language anymore
 
The city air is a bilious green, the trees, poisonous
I refer to writing as a bad habit now
Breaking old glass panes with new pebbles
 
Only an enchanted madman, lazy, gaunt
Gathering dry leaves all day
The postman you had befriended

PABLO AND THE POSTMAN

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PABLO AND THE POSTMAN

The postman you had befriended
Gathers dry leaves now and
Sings an unfamiliar tune to himself
 
I’m looking for sustenance in end-rhymes
I’ve bought sleep, a broken moon, wicker chairs
Wondering how long it will be to tranquillity
 
The lake whose shores you used to wander on
Is as dry as a stone which I’ve put in a ring
In the worthless hope that my luck will turn
 
Colour-coordinated scraps of flattery in the morning
Solitary walks in the afternoon . . . How will I
Write you letters in my language anymore
 
The city air is a bilious green, the trees, poisonous
I refer to writing as a bad habit now
Breaking old glass panes with new pebbles
 
Only an enchanted madman, lazy, gaunt
Gathering dry leaves all day
The postman you had befriended

PABLO AND THE POSTMAN

The postman you had befriended
Gathers dry leaves now and
Sings an unfamiliar tune to himself
 
I’m looking for sustenance in end-rhymes
I’ve bought sleep, a broken moon, wicker chairs
Wondering how long it will be to tranquillity
 
The lake whose shores you used to wander on
Is as dry as a stone which I’ve put in a ring
In the worthless hope that my luck will turn
 
Colour-coordinated scraps of flattery in the morning
Solitary walks in the afternoon . . . How will I
Write you letters in my language anymore
 
The city air is a bilious green, the trees, poisonous
I refer to writing as a bad habit now
Breaking old glass panes with new pebbles
 
Only an enchanted madman, lazy, gaunt
Gathering dry leaves all day
The postman you had befriended
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