söndag 2 juli 2017

Poesi på en söndag

Derek Walcott (1930-2017)


Things do not explode,
they fail, they fade,

as sunlight fades from the flesh,
as the foam drains quick in the sand,

even love's lightning flash
has no thunderous end,

it dies with the sound
of flowers fading like the flesh

from sweating pumice stone,
everything shapes this

till we are left
with the silence that surrounds Beethoven's head.

Från diktsamlingen Sea Grapes (1976).

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