Saturday, 26 July 2008

The Last Lover

The Last Lover

The land is dead
from this tree to the far horizon
the land is white
snowy white
picked clean
like a vultured corpse

the villages are empty
the towns gaunt and still
the only full place is the the graveyard

the winds sweeps moaningly
and all around is emptiness

Yet one thing moves
yet one thing still loves, and loves
and tenderly touches
with its hot embrace
- Plague

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