poetry

The Dread Of Dead Birds

The Dread Of Dead Birds

The dread of dead birds
In the ambient of a stake-out
Is the song of blood

Exists
A slightly higher pitched thought
Like the distances
Lave themselves with silence

Sail away eyes down Attila's ill-whirlpools
Dig out the birds
Which are self-sufficient
Convinced
That the most beautiful voices
Reach
From dead lines in the ground

We need them
At the beginning and the end of love
We always summon them then
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