The Daze of Death


Srecko Kosovel

It's silent, it's dead; it's gray.

People flutter

from one rock to another.

Tired of fluttering.

Tired, deadened.

Their hearts are stone,

they can't water their branches,

can't cake in hope.

Their hearts are dry.

People sell their furniture,

they pawn their hearts,

they pawn their reason,

and hang themselves by the window.


hanged people,

dangling by the windows of life.

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