Wojciech F. Zlomek - Constant Times of Day - Night


We were together
poets all

We soaked our tired legs
in tar drinking gall
and snacking on bitterness
Drying with trash
our gray faces and hands

We read our poems
and though each written differently
they were all an apotheosis
of the one celebrating the birthday

At the end we could take
with us leftovers from the table
and we were given freshly peeled
skins of dead poets and the biggest
sinners so that we can copy
from them new chapters of the darkest
history of humanity.

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