Tuesday, January 25, 2011


I passed by your final resting place
this past night . . . .
and I knew that you had long gone from this place;
I saw no trace of sorrow . . .
only a bit of moss clinging
to the side
of an old tree . . .
and there,
dangling from the nearest leafless limb,
branches  fingered like  a hand
of skeletal proportions . . .,
a giant globe
of light beamed . . . brilliant
with an inner fire . . . yet,
white and cold like ice,
casting deep shadows,
impenetrable and resolute
like pools of black ink,
bleeding away from
still figures of marble
defining the dead,
clustered and
leaning close toward  an
undefined center

I saw an old crow today
on a telephone pole
gently grooming another
with a beak like a sword. . .
the other posed hunched over
in the cold fog .. .. moisture beaded
on his feathered coat . .
he sat,
still, like an ancient warrior,
done with the killing. . .
silhouetted black cut-outs against
a white sky . . .

          And the day goes by
                    like a black feather
                                 loosened and floating
     down like a dream . .. 

Memory of the Victims of the atomic bomb in Hiroshima and Nagasaki 1945
by DigitalSimplyWorld 


by Piotr Pawłowski


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