Birdsbirds, everywhere, great black cawing explosions of them, like radioactive fall-out, like shrapnel.
How is it, Chloe, that your pretty skirt Is torn so badly by the winds that hurt Real people, you who, in eternity, sing The hours, sun in your hair appearing And disappearing? How is that your breasts Are pierced by shrapnel, and the oak groves burn, While you, charmed, caring not at all, turn To run through forests of machinery and concrete And haunt us with the echoes of your feet?czesław miłosz
Create and save customized word lists. Sign up today and start improving your vocabulary!
Please set a username for yourself.
People will see it as Author Name with your public word lists.