<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=368083" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sabbaths, W.I.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Those villages stricken with the melancholia of Sunday,<br>in all of whose ocher streets one dog is sleeping</div><div style="margin:10px 0">those volcanoes like ashen roses, or the incurable sore<br>of poverty, around whose puckered mouth thin boys are<br>selling yellow sulphur stone</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the burnt banana leaves that used to dance<br>the river whose bed is made of broken bottles<br>the cocoa grove where a bird whose cry sounds green and<br>yellow and in the lights under the leaves crested with<br>orange flame has forgotten its flute</div><div style="margin:10px 0">gommiers peeling from sunburn still wrestling to escape the sea</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the dead lizard turning blue as stone</div><div style="margin:10px 0">those rivers, threads of spittle, that forgot the old music</div><div style="margin:10px 0">that dry, brief esplanade under the drier sea almonds<br>where the dry old men sat</div><div style="margin:10px 0">watching a white schooner stuck in the branches<br>and playing draughts with the moving frigate birds</div><div style="margin:10px 0">those hillsides like broken pots</div><div style="margin:10px 0">those ferns that stamped their skeletons on the skin</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and those roads that begin reciting their names at vespers</div><div style="margin:10px 0">mention them and they will stop<br>those crabs that were willing to let an epoch pass<br>those herons like spinsters that doubted their reflections<br>inquiring, inquiring</div><div style="margin:10px 0">those nettles that waited<br>those Sundays, those Sundays</div><div style="margin:10px 0">those Sundays when the lights at the road's end were an occasion</div><div style="margin:10px 0">those Sundays when my mother lay on her back<br>those Sundays when the sisters gathered like white moths<br>round their street lantern</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and cities passed us by on the horizon</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Derek+Walcott">Derek Walcott</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=368083" data-title="Sabbaths, W.I. de Derek Walcott" data-description="Those villages stricken with the melancholia of Sunday, in all of whose ocher streets one dog is sleeping those volcanoes like ashen roses, or the incurable sore of poverty, around whose puckered mouth thin boys are selling yellow sulphur stone ..."></div> </div> </div>

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