The Sunday of the Blind Man


J.B., 2017

The sharp steel of the plough
turns nude thighs made by earth
shaping clay into forms
of exotic brown women

Even if I can count
everyday in the mirror
many springs on my face,
this one twists hard my flesh

A light rain shines the field
where I cross lewd forms
and disperse silly thoughts
while I walk with you, talking

My mind is sick with fog
penetrating my depths
My desire is dull substance:
wash the mud from my eyes

March, 26th 2017

Italian version

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One comment on “The Sunday of the Blind Man

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