Immanuel Mifsud

Fatal Songs
Portrait111111

You start to think you'll turn into glass,
grow cold and rigid, petrified by sorrow.
And you think you're about to die at any minute
with one hand on your chest and the other waving
at the one you've left behind to weep for you.
You dream horrible dreams of scorching rain
cleansing you of old, old sins;
of roads with no known destination;
of flowers which die while you are smelling them;
of your children who were never born.

You begin to believe that you should grab a car
and drive as fast as it can towards the horizon
without caring at all where the ground ends
or how high the rocks raised by billows are
which always sing fatal songs.



Your Heart
by Immanuel Mifsud.
Listen in silence to your heart beating,
to keep you on your feet, to keep you watching,
to keep you dreaming of the destined day.

You could just stop it, you are free to stop it.
You could wake up tomorrow and decide
that now's the time to meet Fate in the fields,
and let the cold creep mortally through you
or misdose your medicine;
or go down to the water; or crack your cranium;
or taste the thick fumes of your car; or throw
yourself down so you can meet the sky.
You could just stop it, you are free to stop it.

You're also free to feed it flowers.
You could nourish it with the tears you shed.
You could hold it in your hands and start to kiss it.
Or you could clasp it close to warm it.
You could plead with it never to stop.

And you can love it. You are free to love it.






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