Iteration
My son is dead and I am going blind,
And in the Ishmael-wind of grief
I tremble like a leaf;
I have no mind for any word you say:
My son is dead and I am going blind.
More poems by Scharmel Iris
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After the Martyrdom
They threw a stone, you threw a stone,
I threw a stone that day.
Although their sharpness bruised his flesh … -
Early Nightfall
The pale day drowses on the western steep;
The toiler faints along the marge of sleep
Within the sunset-press, incarnadine, … -
Lament
Lady, your heart has turned to dust,
Your wail is taken by the sea.
The wind is knocking at my heart, …