BY THE STROKE OF A PEN
What by the stroke of pen, the parchment’s whisper,
in word’s sharp edge fades out within the sentence,
and drop of blood proclaims? How easy, senseless,
to drink sweet lies, intoxicate defenceless.
The truth, perhaps, is cruel in every measure.
You ask in vain, from hopelessness of nations,
who trusts, who hopes, who prays, without temptations.
We’re all the same! Accursed, who sees foundations.
Alone in crowd. The bodies turning into masses
roll sudden forth, resembling the sea.
Their very skin is bleeding, burning free!
Why weeps with rain the one who fashioned thee?
By day, by night I wander without meaning—
—through labyrinth of world, with rage entangled.
A shade of deeds, a shell of self, dismantled.
So vain! Not driven by desire, but mangled.
Still breath by breath… in passage of the hours
my veins hold something beating, never resting.
I cannot silence it. I listen, testing.
What do I seek? Perhaps the soul’s divesting.
Author: Veron
