En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Book of Van den Braak

I stared at the book on the table
Where it lay on the weathered oak,
The cover so black and tarnished,
Tanned in leather through coils of smoke,
Its ancient layers had long been carved
As petals of some grim flower,
Where an evil mildew spread its mould
From the walls of that ancient tower.

The book was set like an altar piece
In that ancient, flagstoned hall,
Catching the feeble rays of light
Through cracks in the old stone wall,
I hastened to look away, but yet
It gripped me in its glare,
Like some old German Grimoire...
Though no title page was there!

I reached for the cover and opened it,
The leather creaked with age,
As it formed with its rotting petals
Into a rose around the page,
The smell of the mildew wafted up
And the chill was damp and stark,
There was nothing but evil in that tower,
In the book of Van den Braak.

I leant right over the book and saw
A woodcut of a lane,
The trees were grim in their winter coats
As the snow gave way to rain,
The mud was thick on the barren leaves
That were mulched from the Autumn's fall,
And I felt it squelch right under my feet
As the wind howled round the hall!

The tower was gone, I stood outside
In the rain and the brooding dark,
Walking along a windswept lane
In the book of Van den Braak,
I saw the light of a cottage there,
Set back in among the trees,
And a woman wailed on the painted step,
My own, my dear Louise!

I ran towards her, through a stream
That babbled beside the lane,
Louise was crying and wailing there,
She muttered: 'I'm not to blame! '
I must have seemed like a phantom there,
I waved, but she couldn't see,
She said, 'you shouldn't have killed him,
I just asked you to set me free! '

A man ran out from the cottage door,
His coat was covered in blood,
He ran his hands through his tangled hair
And fell, to kneel in the mud.
He took her into his arms and cried,
She clung, and called him Mark,
And then when he turned, I saw his face,
I knew him - Van den Braak!

I must have been quite invisible
In the pages of that book,
Or they were a couple of phantoms
Making love as I stood and shook,
I walked around to the cottage door
And peered in out of the rain,
I lay stone dead on the hearthstone there,
A bullet lodged in my brain.

In shock I turned, I saw the tower,
I ran with all my might,
Back to the Norman Keep and Moat,
Back through the surly night,
The eyes of demons had followed me
From high in the trees of the park,
But I was ready for come-what-may
At the hands of Van den Braak!

Then suddenly, I was in the tower,
Leaning over the book,
When Van den Braak called out that he
Was ready to take a look,
I'd brought the book with the tenants' rents
Of those that lived in the park,
But I stabbed him high in the rib cage there,
And cut his throat in the dark!

I went to his German Grimoire
Fell once more through the open page,
Went looking for my Louise, by now
In the white hot throes of rage,
She sat and wailed on the painted step
And muttered there in the dark...
'I didn't ask you to kill the man,
Just free me from Van den Braak! '

1 April 2010

poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Shadow of Elspeth Brown

The sky was grey on that fateful day,
The sun was going down,
I made my way through a field of hay
To the cottage of Elspeth Brown.
She lived alone by the forest there
And studied her ancient tomes,
Her Grimoires, Necronomicons,
And her hearth was filled with bones!

I'd loved the girl for a year or two
And I'd made my interest known,
She was torn, she said, by the spells in her head,
She needed to be alone.
I knew she was seeing another guy
He called when I wasn't around,
‘He's more like the shade of a ghost, ' she said,
‘I raised him, out of the ground! '

She looked distraught as she waved me in,
Her hair was a tangled mess,
A book that featured some ugly Djin
Lay open across her dress.
I've never been one for the ancient arts
Of Magick, or spells and glooms,
But Elspeth wanted to play her part,
Cast spells in the afternoons!

I saw a copy of Crowley there,
A copy of Dragon Noir,
The Grimoire of Honorius
Was scattered across a chair!
‘What horrible Djin have you raised up
From the terrible realm of hell? '
I laughed, but Elspeth began to frown
And conjured another spell!

‘Three bat-wings and a gouty toad
And a strand of a maiden's hair,
A philtre of deadly nightshade stirred
With the leg of a wooden chair!
A third of a pint of hemlock, gathered
Close to the midnight hour…'
The sun was gone and the bright moon shone
Through the door of my lady's bower!

I thought to say it was nonsense,
Raised my eyes and stared in the gloom,
And there was her patient shadow cast
On the whitewashed wall of the room,
A shadow hand ran up through the hair
So tangled, under her cap,
I looked again at my erstwhile friend,
Her hands were down in her lap!

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck
Rise up, and a breathless chill,
The shadow had suddenly straightened up
My heart was standing still,
Two horns curled out of the shadow's head
Distinct on the further wall,
When Elspeth suddenly screamed, and said:
‘My skin's beginning to crawl! '

She spilled the book on the oaken floor,
Jumped up and looked at the wall,
The shadow that she had claimed for her own
Was suddenly eight feet tall,
It raised its hands in a threatening way
Against all physical laws,
I went to say, in a blank dismay:
‘Those fingers look like claws! '

We rushed together, out of the door,
Her screaming, me in fright,
The moon was rising, up in the sky,
You couldn't tell day from night,
The shadow followed, hard on our heels
And spread out over the ground,
I noticed it wasn't attached to her feet,
But followed with never a sound!

It moved around, ran by her side,
And then I saw it ahead,
She stopped in horror, whatever she'd done,
She'd summoned a Djin from the dead!
‘You'll have to set up an undo spell, '
I knew that she was to blame,
‘I can't, ' she muttered, ‘I don't know how,
He was here before you came! '

She wandered back to the cottage at last,
‘It's only a shadow, ' she said,
‘I shouldn't be worried, it won't hurt me! '
I turned on my heel, and fled!
I'm such a coward with magical things,
I ran full pelt all the way,
Then lay in dread, hid under my bed
‘Til the sun came up, next day!

I finally plucked the courage up
To return to the cottage there,
I stood in the yard, and called on out:
‘Elspeth - come out if you dare! '
A shadow stood in the hallway
And my heart, it turned to stone,
As I read the note on the lintel post,
‘I want to be left alone! '

The sun was high in the morning sky
As I looked on down at my feet,
There wasn't a sign of a shadow there,
My heart then skipped a beat,
For there on the inner whitewashed wall
And beyond the hallway Djin,
I could see two shadows, making love,
But I hadn't the nerve to go in!

poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Read The Book

Dolce said to read the book.
Don’t skip any pages though,
Lizzy; I want you to read it
From cover to cover. Ok lover,
You said and examined the
Book’s covers; the hard leather,
The well sewn pages. You knew
He wrote it without his name on
The spine with the title. It was
As he spoke, the words flowing
Across the page, the meaning
Carried on and over and into
Your head. You stopped on page
Nine; he’d written about the night
He’d screwed you five times, although
No name was mentioned, you knew
It was you. Even the bed and room
Were as it had been, written right
Down to the creaking springs and
The man next door banging on the
Wall with his darn shoe. You read on
Carrying that image with you, the way
He’d caught it all with the right words,
Hammered that night right home like
Some crucified butterfly onto the page
And into your head. You paused at page
Twelve. Some paragraph about some
Lark in the bushes in the park after dark.
That didn’t ring true, at least not with you.
Who was the woman? Who was the screw?
You closed up the book; refused to look
Or read anymore; you wondered who it
Was he’d had that night in the bushes
Beneath the moonlight. Maybe it was just
Poetic licence made up to make it sell well
And the cash machines ring loud and true.
But the bitch in the bushes wasn’t you.

poem by Terry Collett
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The Water Tower

I sit and stare at this empty page,
The wind howls long at the winter eaves,
The cloud is heavy, and black with rage
As squalls dance in through the myrtle leaves.

While deep inside in the cottage gloom
My love lies weary, cocooned in dreams,
I hear her cry in the darkened room
Call out one name from a nightmare scene.

‘Michelle, ’ she mutters, then groans aloud
I grit my teeth at the open door,
The wind it eddies in dust and leaves
And echoes long at the water tower.

‘Michelle, Michelle, ’ it grumbles and groans,
‘Michelle, ’ it whispers, then skips and howls;
My love rolls over in deepest sleep
While I keep watch through the early hours.

The storm comes in and the rain drives down,
Batters at windows and roof in vain,
The wires whine in a humming frown:
‘Michelle, Michelle, ’ is its one refrain.

And tears roll at my weathered cheek
The clock chimes five at the early hour,
Michelle once crawled from her bed, asleep,
And went to climb at the water tower.

Her hair was black as a raven’s coat
Her eyes set back in that tiny face,
Three winters long was her spell of dreams
Before she crept to that dreadful place.

Three winters long was our fairy child
Who lisped and chattered from heart to heart,
The cottage door had a faulty latch –
I’d always meant to replace that part.

But now, awake from her nest of dreams
I see my love at the open door,
I wait in hope, but her eyes are ice;
She’s staring out at the water tower.

Then I look down, and the page is full,
I’ve scribbled the words of an ancient rhyme,
Over and over and over again –
‘I’ll fix the latch when I get the time.’

And she goes back to her bed to cry
While I sit frozen beside the door,
The latch still rattles, the door’s ajar;
I’ve punched three holes in the water tower.

13 June 1999

poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Book Of Love

In the book of love come of age
When you lose your love, you turn the page
Hey-ho the book of love,
Life is written in your own blood
Say forever and it all sounds fine
When youre holding hands,
With the hands of time
Hey-ho the book of love
Laugh at the dead but tomorrow you cry
Chorus:
My broken hearts from a to z
Dos and donts on bended knees
Change of lovers endlessly
And this book of love is writing me
Chapter 2 you walk away
But in chapter 3 a man made me stay
Hey-ho the book of love
Why dontcha look up
All the games you played
Chorus
Theyll be sweet love in a darkness
But the book of love
Is a story of your loneliness
Finger tipped it on a holy night
And a page is ripped for a name of life
Check the back cause the datell be due
When theyll throw the book of love at you
They are broken hearts from a to z
Dos and donts on bended knees
Disappointed right to be
Celebrate a celebrity
K-i-s-s-i-n-g
Ah stupid cupid set me free
Took a look and whatll I see
This book of love is writing me
This book of love is writing me
This book of love is writing me
This book of love is writing me

song performed by by Cher
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cant Be Really Gone

Her hat is hanging by the door
The one she bought in mexico
It blocked the wind, it stopped the rain
Shed never leave that one
So she cant be really gone
The shoes she bought on christmas eve
She laughed and said they called her name
Its like theyre waiting in the hall
For her to slip them on
So she cant be really gone
Chorus:
I dont know when shell come back back
She must intend to come back
And Ive seen the error of my ways
Dont waste the tears on me
What more proof do you need
Just look around the room
So much of her remains
Her book is lying on the bed
The two of hearts to mark her page
Now who could ever walk away at chapter 21
So she cant be really gone
Bridge:
Just look around this room
So much of her remains
Her book is lying on the bed
The two of hearts to mark her page
Now who could ever walk away with so much left undone
So she cant be really gone
No she cant be really gone

song performed by by Tim McGraw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Man Alone

It is yourself you seek
In a long rage,
Scanning through light and darkness
Mirrors, the page,

Where should reflected be
Those eyes and that thick hair,
That passionate look, that laughter.
You should appear

Within the book, or doubled,
Freed, in the silvered glass;
Into all other bodies
Yourself should pass.

The glass does not dissolve;
Like walls the mirrors stand;
The printed page gives back
Words by another hand.

And your infatuate eye
Meets not itself below;
Strangers lie in your arms
As I lie now.

poem by Louise Bogan
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The Book

It was late in the autumn of 2210
The shuttle had gone off to Mars,
The highways of Asia were solidly blocked
With a billion Chinese cars,
I'd wandered around the Museum of Trees,
The Fruit Section opened my eyes,
The bitterness taste of electronic apples
So cleverly changed, and disguised.

I seemed to be wandering round on my own,
Museums were on their way out,
The Virtual Channels were simple to screen
And more easy to access, no doubt.
The ancient attendant had followed me round,
He warily started to say:
‘I have something hidden, way out in the back
If you're interested, come out this way! '

He led to a room that was dingy and dark,
Went over and pulled up the blind,
The place was so dirty, with cobwebs and dust,
‘Not used much; I hope you don't mind! '
And there on the table he pointed it out,
A thick slab of something - I looked,
‘You'll not see another of these in your life,
‘What is it? ' I said. ‘It's a book! '

He lifted the thick leather cover for me,
To show what he called was a page,
‘The government banned them in '73,
They said they caused people to rage.
We're not used to words on a scale such as this…'
There were words and more words, like a plague,
They dazzled my vision, I staggered a bit
Like a man who is struck with an ague.

He turned other pages, a hundred of them,
A thousand, I just couldn't count,
And every one teeming with words on each page
So the figures continued to mount.
‘We're used to see just fifteen words in a line,
We twitter and tweet all the time,
How could a person sit down with a book
With all that! - without blowing his mind? '

‘It's called ‘General Knowledge', the old man replied,
‘Not something you hear every day,
And fabulous stories and verses in rhyme,
And the glory of history's sway.
There once was a time, there were millions of these,
Each home had a shelf full of books,
But once our technology grabbed at our minds
We were lost, we were pretty well hooked! '

‘The government knew it was dumbing us down,
You can't fight what you'll never know,
By banning the books and the Libraries
Our minds were beginning to slow.'
I left there quite thoughtful, I needed to write
How misled we had been, and were blind,
I started with paper, a pen and some ink
And believe it! - I wrote it in rhyme!

poem by David Lewis Paget (3 September 2012)
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Magic Words

In the land of the lost
They dug up a book of magic spells today
No one had seen spells like this before
Some of them were extremely weird
The cover of the book said:
PO-etry
And the people wondered if PO-etry was a black or white magic. The book was sent to an expert in magic and his assistant for examining.

Look at page 82
'Mumps on the breast
sleepless rest
Eastless west
I didn't have to study for my urine test.'

or
page 97
'Crazy insane
painless pain
evaporating rain
nothing changes perception
quite like the brain.'

or how about
page 115
'Vision blurred
brain is slurred
this is what happens
when I think like the herd.'

The expert in magic confirmed it was white magic and shared the spells with everyone. The spells brought wonder and joy to the people in the land of the lost. And perhaps that is magic in itself.

poem by Joseph DeMarco
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Ibrahim II

You are better off today than yesterday,
But tomorrow comes and it will be worst off!
Oh Ibrahim my lover! ! This is how the world is,
And we have to face the realities around us at all times.

Of the water which was turned into blood!
Of the River Nile which was turned into frogs!
But, there is One Law for us all;
Yes, One Law for the native born and for the stranger.

The book of war!
The book peace,
The book of joy,
The book of love,
The book of romance,
The book of rivers;
And like the first moon of the year! !
However, all the rivers that flow ends up to the sea.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Your Book

Strangers came into the apartment
walked right to the bookshelf
to spill beer on your book.

Your book on a hook dangling off the roof
attracted a white horse to the door.

Your book emitted physical waves
into the air, drying my hair.

You climbed a tree to write
your book where you wouldn't be seen.
There was no tree there
until you made it.

The shimmering leaves seemed to be powered by light.
The tree shuffled this light onto strings.
The strings hung from the air.
The printers sewed your book together with them.

poem by Matthew Rohrer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Night Visitor

Three times the knock it came to me
and opening up the door
I saw no person standing there
for help or succour plea.

I sat back down to lift the book
and Donne his Epicedes,
beside the embers I had sat,
three times again the sound.

My heart it stilled,
my heart it froze,
for no wind blew the cottage sky,
alone but lit by moon.

The sound again did slowly make,
was someone dead or going home?
for I with book and embers stood
afraid and now alone.

I stood and to the knock at once,
a soul upon my door,
for only wood could make that sound,
that I could hear again.

I slowly lifted up the latch,
and fearly opened up,
the door it let the ember glow
outside into the path.

I looked to see into the dark,
and there an Angel girl,
of long black hair,
and handsome form
did stand and beckon on.

Out into forest I was brought,
with hand and heart entwined.
We danced by pines,
and kissed by stars,
a garland she did make.

And oh! what night of reveries,
and oh! what night of care,
my youth returned again to make,
our love upon the carpet moss
alone lit by the moon.

And when awoke, I saw was gone,
the angel girl and joy,
I thought that I had dreamed
the scene beneath the single star.
But standing up I made my way
the cottage open door,
the fireside chair alone it kept
the poems for resting there.

And in the morning by the sun,
a light on pathway shone.
A garland made of pines and cones
lay there upon the step.

Let us not laugh at reveries
of love the heart can make,
the angel girl, she beckons
on to mossy carpet heart,
as lit by forest moon.

poem by Bernard Kennedy
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The Last Page

I always dread the last page in a book,
especially when the book was good.
So I close it up and put it aside
but some of those pages you can't hide.
They've become a memory to keep.
So the book just goes to sleep
for a while.

And some time in the future out it comes
just like a trusty old friend.
I open it up and start it once again
reading it from beginning to the end.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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You Cant Judge A Book

You cant judge a book by looking at the cover
No, you cant judge a man by looking at the cover
And you cant judge a book by looking at the cover
When I was young and went to school
My mama taught me the magic rule
And what she said I tried my best to follow
She said
You cant judge a book by looking at the cover
No, you cant judge a man by looking at the cover
And you cant judge a book by looking at the cover
Then I left school and moved around
And what I saw and what I found
Made me remember what she said to follow
She said
You cant judge a book by looking at the cover
No, you cant judge a man by looking at the cover
And you cant judge a book by looking at the cover
And now I think, by now Id know, that what appears is not always so
And I remember what she said to follow
She said
You cant judge a book by looking at the cover
No, you cant judge a man by looking at the cover
And you cant judge a book by looking at the cover

song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Why.............?

The American book of 'why',
The Asian book of 'why',
The European book of 'why',
The African book of 'why',
The Australian book of 'why',
The most asked question in the valley of world events;
Especially when one explodes a bomb!

The Christian book of 'why',
The Muslim book of 'why',
The Jewish book of 'why',
The Hindu book of 'why',
The Krishna book of 'why',
lLife is like the yeast which makes the bread rise;
But, the writer always has his or her own mind.

The Pagan book of 'why',
The Buddhist book of 'why',
The Protestant book of 'why',
The Confucian book of 'why',
To all life's aspects with the remaining books of 'why';
Poetry is the literature that muses with the mind.

Shall the trumpet be blown in the city and,
The people will not be afraid?
Seven bulls and seven rams,
I am the planted tree by the rivers of waters.
I am very young in years but,
The word 'why' is the question that goes around easily.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Gods Coloring Book

Today as I was walking
In the fields just down the way
I sat down on a fallen log
To pass the time away
And as I looked around me
The more that I did look
The more I realize that I am viewing
Gods coloring book
I saw a golden ray of sunlight
A silver drop of dew
A soft, white floating cloud
Sailing cross the sky a blue
A yellow dandelion
Pretty evergreen
And some red and orange flowers
Growing wild along the stream
And the more I look around me
And the more that I do look
The more I realize that I am viewing
Gods coloring book
The greyness in an old mans hair
The pink in babys cheeks
The blackness in a stormy sky
The brown in fallen leaves
And the multicolored rainbow
Stretched out across the sky
And the purple haze at sunset
Just before the night
And the more I look around me
And the more that I do look
The more I realize that I am viewing
Gods coloring book
Then I turn my face toward the sky
And say a silent prayer
Though God doesnt speak to me
I see him everywhere
He is all around me
Hes everywhere I look
And each new day is but a new page
In gods coloring book
Tag:
Each new day is but a new page
In gods coloring book
Hmmmmmm

song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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(Inspiration Poem) A Book Never Read

Living by the fire
Living to admire
Living down to the wire
Still the wheels don't turn
I think it is because I want it
Urn for it
The beautiful almighty
I will not pray
Not as long as I live day by day
How much does my soul really weigh?
How many sins can be forgiven?
The fog will eventually choke you out
Whine and pout all you want
It won't make a dent in my steel cage
Because it was built from pure rage
If Its not a stage
What am I going through?

Its just another page of my book never read

Words as stale as the food I was fed
Maybe it was how many times I have been dropped on my head
I plead guilty to an unwritten destiny
I lied to myself in a mirror straight to my very own face
Memories erased

It's just another page of my book never read

I can't be lead astray
Especially if I'm willing
It's not much different then stealing
A moral yeng then yang
A oh so perfect harmony
Keeping things on a even keel
Always questioning what is real

It's just another page of my book never read

I hold on so tight to my comfy bed
Such a beautiful night
The stars are glistening oh so bright
I turn off the lights
Sleep for the dreams of a tomorrow
We are all living on borrowed time
So I ask again where's mine?
A question that continues to go unanswered
Draw your own conclusion
It's another one of the deep dark mysterious illusions

It's just another page of my book never read
It's as if every word has never been said
It's just another page of my tattered and torn book that will be never read

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Book Of Black Holes

You be on yourside
I'll be on my side
In between there is a book
the book of Black Holes

You sling your arrows
I'll dodge the harrows
And then I'll record it
In the book of Black Holes

There be many pages
that goes through many stages
In the end you may find it
In the book of Black Holes

If it's a five or ten
Even a zero I win
And I have recorded it
In the book of Black Holes

Your comments cryptic
Your words haze, eliptic
And like I said goes down
In the book of Black Holes

Your choice to be insipid
Your dreams are timid
Compared to what's collected
In my book of Black Holes

poem by Midnights Voice
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The Picture Book

When I was not quite five years old
I first saw the blue picture book,
And Fraulein Spitzenburger told
Stories that sent me hot and cold;
I loathed it, yet I had to look:
It was a German book.

I smiled at first, for she'd begun
With a back-garden broad and green,
And rabbits nibbling there: page one
Turned; and the gardener fired his gun
From the low hedge: he lay unseen
Behind: oh, it was mean!

They're hurt, they can't escape, and so
He stuffs them head-down in a sack,
Not quite dead, wriggling in a row,
And Fraulein laughed, 'Ho, ho! Ho, ho!'
And gave my middle a hard smack,
I wish that I'd hit back.

Then when I cried she laughed again;
On the next page was a dead boy
Murdered by robbers in a lane;
His clothes were red with a big stain
Of blood, he held a broken toy,
The poor, poor little boy!

I had to look: there was a town
Burning where every one got caught,
Then a fish pulled a nigger down
Into the lake and made him drown,
And a man killed his friend; they fought
For money, Fraulein thought.

Old Fraulein laughed, a horrid noise.
'Ho, ho!' Then she explained it all
How robbers kill the little boys
And torture them and break their toys.
Robbers are always big and tall:
I cried: I was so small.

How a man often kills his wife,
How every one dies in the end
By fire, or water or a knife.
If you're not careful in this life,
Even if you can trust your friend,
You won't have long to spend.

I hated it--old Fraulein picked
Her teeth, slowly explaining it.
I had to listen, Fraulein licked
Her fingers several times and flicked
The pages over; in a fit
Of rage I spat at it...

And lying in my bed that night
Hungry, tired out with sobs, I found
A stretch of barren years in sight,
Where right is wrong, but strength is right,
Where weak things must creep underground,
And I could not sleep sound.

poem by Robert Graves
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The Black Widow Bride

He looked into her eyes, and asked her why she was so engrossed in the book, instead of him.
The young bride, upon her wedding bed replied, 'to read a book, is to step into a world beyond the ordinary.
You open a world where imagination, fantasy, and even pain become one with you.
You can feel as though you are a part of the world in which you have magically fallen into.
It has accepted, and possessed you in every way.
Your mind can take you anyplace, anywhere, at anytime.
You can become one with the Medieval period, romantic fantasy, comical adventure, and total horrific terror.
So grab a book, and live the life you've only now have been dreaming about. She looked at her now sleeping husband, turned the cover of her book over, and thought about how much he looked like the dashing man on the cover of her romantic adventure book.
She kissed him upon his forehead, and plunged the knife deep into his flesh.

poem by Velmar Pewee Hale Johnson
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I read a book

I read a book
Not to enhance my looks

I read a book
Maybe to avoid being a crook

I read a book
Not just to learn how to cook

I read a book
To ascertain how to defend my rights
Not just to acquire knowledge
Reading a book I pledge,
Is one of the roads to the light

I read a book
To understand how a kings territory
Is defended with pieces such as the rook

I read a book
So there will be no questions asked
When I count correctly what you took

I read a book
So that I play not ignorant
Now on life I’ve a different outlook

I read a book
So if I come up with all the right answers
I will know for sure it is not merely a fluke

Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi

poem by Sylvia Chidi
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