|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| |
| 14-JUN-2004 | Michael Puff |
|
Cripple ONCE when I saw a cripple Gasping slowly his last days with the white plague, Looking from hollow eyes, calling for air, Desperately gesturing with wasted hands In the dark and dust of a house down in a slum, I said to myself I would rather have been a tall sunflower Living in a country garden Lifting a golden-brown face to the summer, Rain-washed and dew-misted, Mixed with the poppies and ranking hollyhocks, And wonderingly watching night after night The clear silent processionals of stars. Carl Sandburg, Chicago Poems, 1916 |
Please respect each other's work - do not delete, move or edit entries - thank you!
| comment | |