Pied à terre
Once within a break in brambly fields
something stirred its fearful head in sleep:
Though it be woman or child, work or vision
something that dares not hold me in derision
But till that lingering day bares your face
with prating breath I bide my bane
And even as I clear the brake, shift the trunks
hosannas crop up before you every dawn.
And someday as I have you in my arms
in osculation's brimming nirvanic bliss,
May I not then turn away empty handed
though warm in your inane atmanic face
Then as I wend my kindly way down the road
pitch my tent on this terraqueous matter-mind
Should I then go looking for my immortality
through doors that are forever locked to me
Or could I then lie upon nescience' impervious skies
upon some smoky grass unmapped or husbanded
And hear the awakening cries of spring born trees
then get up to wind my way to some factory blast
(©: T. Wignesan,1957, from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)
poem by T. Wignesan
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I saw a tree a-falling...
I saw a tree a-falling
a-falling down on me
I had no way to turn
it was close on me
I thought it was a plot
to force me out
I knew I could not
even hold it or shout
It was a tree I sheltered
on many a longing day
And now it was so altered
coming to make me pay
I asked it why it longed
to touch its upmost brim
When all around no foe
turned the sun down dim
I touched its bark to hear
I thought I heard a cry
Two leaves it shed on me
and brushed its bark up high
I asked it why it stood
alone and left to brood
It shook its sticks in emphasis
as if to say it was good
(©: T. Wignesan - Kuala Lumpur,1957, from Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: Rayirath Publications,1961.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Unheeded in the spread of his name, quaking
Unheeded in the spread of his name, quaking
Through the knit brow cuddling the sombre eye
Twice buckled into the couch of his yearning
The mouldy cast of unsculptured hands, moulting
In the surging sweaty cries' unexpected sigh
Sooner lost than won with unrenewed longing
Every day, every night in chastened haste, calling
That one face, one hand trembling on bosomy thigh
Through all the twigs of his knotty brooding
Mighty log in the dismembered chips, raking
In uneasy orgasms of a protracted lie
The woman clasped in the memory revolting
Fleshy hair to press, hovering nostrils, drinking
In the incensing vapours, and that face a wry
Screaming in the rubbing spasm, a bloody cursing
All, all and more, and the biting shame, clawing
Now at the name, silently growing, that shy
Child of old hopefully shared and lingered moaning
(© T. Wignesan,1957; first pub. in 'Forum Academicum', University of Heidelberg,1957; from the collection: T. Wignesan. Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)
poem by T. Wignesan
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The Death of the Hindu
Chin cupped
on the ancient bone
of his elbow
he spread five fingers to the world:
and like a cat on zither strings
the hoarse voice of his fathers
issues from his forgotten children:
now he picks one tick
from the back of that suckling cow:
his failing fingers
find not the strength to crush
Not a single eyelash twitters
pass him by
pass him
'Wake not a man asleep
And tell him he has
Nothing to eat.'
(©: T. Wignesan - Paris,1957; from T. Wignesan. Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961; first pub. in 'Forum Academicum', University of Heidelberg,1957)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Coal-Truck
I am a coal-truck
Carrying gold dust.
Someone threw some
Coal-dust upon
My gold-dust.
I am a coal-truck
In a gold mine.
Someone struck a coal vein
And piled me full in vain.
I am a coal-truck
Covered in subterranean dust.
Someone shovelled my soil
And found an ancient bone
All coiled.
I am a coal-truck
Waiting for the rain.
The sun is my rail
The night my shed.
I am a coal-truck
Rumbling all the way.
Wash me in the rain-storm
And fill me full of coke
Until I choke.
(©: T. Wignesan,1957 - Pub. in 'Forum Academicum', Heidelberg University,1957; from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Little Clock
Why in pensive ticking, silent thoughts
You wile your time away
When all around huge swelling bells
Toll the days away!
Every hour that announced may go
Your silent hands take hold
And though the ages chimed in ears
Yours they never behold.
If all the clocks the world had known
Had struck one strong big note,
They would never still your plodding tone
Nor the working hearth you alert.
Do you wonder, wonder, little clock
What makes the grandfather tick!
Or his aching belly in the depth of sorrow
Cries to the world it's sick!
Thirty million years and Pleistocene dark,
They are one split second short!
And whimpering suns that rise and flop
Have scarce stolen your tick or thought!
So, my little clock, my faithful clock
When I hear the tall town bell,
I'll shrug my shoulders, one tiny moment
And know that all is well.
Dedicated to Gertrud Widmayer, my landlady at Heidelberg
(©: T. Wignesan,1957 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)
poem by T. Wignesan
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The Gnat Nebulae
Full pummelling fisticuffs
Stitch over stitch
In and out
Imperceptibly kaleidoscopic
Swirling from ear to ear
Sporadic
Thrumming mystical notes
Notes of whisper
Whisper in the ear
Now a bothered swish of clawing
Cleaving slipping fingers
Immalleable rolling universal ball
Microcosmic needle into
Macrocosmic wool all
Silently thudding kneading pulling
Sealing a sin all opened unforgiven
Eternally whispering to a few
And never really heard
Pummelling sewing the invisible centre
Round and round the darkless sun
Only the end that began
Only a scratch and a bother
What bother to scratch
For scratching bothers
Bothers a scratch
Scratch and not to bother
Scratch Scratch Scratch
Dedicated to J.C. Alldridge
(©: T. Wignesan - Paris,1957; from T. Wignesan. Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961; first pub. in 'Forum Academicum', University of Heidelberg,1957)
poem by T. Wignesan
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The Snake Charmer and the Hamadryad
Piccolo and been-throated pibroch
Dilating dimpled hood
Spreading photometric darkroom eyes
Waxing waxing matching
Venomous lip to music's piping lip
O Queen of stung dragon-mouthed Po
Dancing girl of nuanceless ancient reliefs
The apotheosis Brahman curling on the neck
Must you now sink sink
Dread watched
Spineless
Into the winding womb wickerwork
Watching watching pipe-eyed watching
Until you slip
Over the sill of the pipe and the lip
Anathema!
Amorphous piteous anathema!
Amulet of Siva!
Licking the boneless air companionless
Then slithering to lie on the trodden path
Must you have this one last lick
A lick that
Stills the
Unheeding
Child astray
Or ripple tailless
In the reedy gust
To the squat charmer's
Hypnotical pibroch
(©: T. Wignesan - Paris,1957; from T. Wignesan. Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961; first pub. in 'Forum Academicum', University of Heidelberg,1957)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Paths in the Private Country
The memory in need
Is the implacable enemy of the creed,
Waits and watches its foe
The all-clawing frenzy on tip-toe;
Quiescent in the instant's repose
The thud of flurried gnawing years evoke.
The poet in his solitary moments, spoke
Those whispered words, memory's secret ear yoke.
His wares, his scares, ailments and balms
Suddenly at the oasis of his thirst, awoke
Transilluminating the hard wad of his private notes,
Clutching at the infant's murmurous innocence
The clear innocuous dogma of cries;
While his immodestly preened notes of travesty
Hark back; and the first poem playfully struck
Teaches him now too late the laugh, the critic's qualms.
Just as the poet had wandered away from childhood,
So will the child thwart the unspoilt man
And shyly, shyly he turns away from the poet
Coming in like a stray camp-follower to brood.
For who may ask which the supreme poet
The child's sweet ineffable musings disrespect
While language etherises meanings proudly sown:
The title in two is halved - one the art, one, lone.
And the man, memory's ill-begotten infant
Lurking round the corner, pranks the urgent moment
Or two - then restores the poet to the poem.
(© T. Wignesan,1957 - First pub. in 'Diskus', University of Frankfurt-am-Main,1960; from the collection: T. Wignesan. Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Night in the Eyes, Invading
I do not know if this is true what I see:
I see in some dim, distant, desolate rock-hold
gathering peoples, driven as though by common fear.
A low mournful humming drifts with the breeze
of manhood tread, and eyeless turban-headed
in the lambent darkness, fire-fly brands moving.
This symphonious humming fills my heart
with deep remorse I cannot quite understand.
In a winding never-ending line they keep coming:
mesmerically drawn as in a living dream.
They do not speak but it seems they are in
common bondage bound and move to words of order.
Someone is dying or some great catastrophe
has befallen these earthen men - for they do not speak!
So many seem to come, but only a few are here.
Yet they keep coming and around
a little rock are gathered cross-legged, naked
scalded knees jagged out, a cluster of brown skinny men.
On the rock someone is standing and a little
behind him - I do not know what - a tree, a ragged pole
or dolmen! and yet here it glows, now a moment paly.
Fading far volcanic lights skip engulfing the sky.
I cannot say what this is all about.
I have a fear the Aliens are here.
And in the middle of this funereal happening,
a voice bursts out crying - 'EMILIANO'...
'Emiliano', and then a choking whimpering
and again - 'Emiliano......
Is this all that is left for me! '
(©: T. Wignesan - Paris,1957 - rev.; from Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: Rayirath Publications,1961.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Feet, feet that walked away with the toes
Heavy the hoods of the eyes
that laboured the scan of horizons
Heavy the course of the thoughts
that sat unstirred on the sill of the stare
Heavy this ancient bottomed nose
sitting in judgment over this meat
Endlessly shunting the frenzied workers
now sniff-drunk and steam-bellowed in the street
This the scull careered through rutted scars
the primeval hair bushed in pathways
Where long tribes with long lances
prod the undergrowth for signs of lost bones
These the ears that heard the wake of worlds
wandering in the ever irretraceable tread
Ears though that admit the silent secrets
ever still and hospitable to the panicky refrain
This the assembled machinery, forging fire
have dropped the tongs
Down the corridors of investigation
hurtling in darkening diseases
These the loins, companion of time
stalked through fire, filth, and foam
Baked in the hot ovens of empires
wearied some morning in blurry depredation
Wobble-eyed, knee-tied, dragged with pacing company
through yesterdays that are forever lost indemnity
Heavy the larvae lipped throb, kiss and consider
heavy the molten strata ooze, consider and kiss
These the organs that prodded nations
and shrivelled up to curse them all in pain
Pursed its potency, convulsed the course of the vein
this the dismembered member of the tribe
Heavy, alas, these feet that thump
jog and reel in the dancing rhythm of millenniums
Trod on the will-less face of faiths
twitched their toes and walked their way
(©: T. Wignesan,1957 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Bedtime on Tramp
He woke down the slope, by the hay
With him a thousand shrill cries
That stilled to him, yawning.
He moved with strands of hay, trailing
On his rags.
Sauntering, he is a flaneur...
The road lamps gave him away.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
Half-way on a bridge over its side
He saw a bridge in Japanese ruin
Chaffing in the hurrying waters below.
He cursed the Japs for lying fallow
Spouting his rheum.
Pondering, he is a sinner...
He knelt for those braves, never to ride.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
A gale rolled down the road in dust,
Churning it up, a regular willy-willy.
The fizzing trees corked: the shutters' hinges off.
His eyes sore: swaying he would cough.
He stood now willy-nilly.
Thinking, he is a fritterer...
He chased the trapping miasma, loping his Wellingtons' lust.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
The rains were bursting heavy on the esplanade,
A rocky splash soared with spray from the waves.
He sought the bulwark of the stony balustrade,
The waters were rising over the promenade
Like columns of graves.
Musing, he is a shirker...
He plunged into the sea, bold as a blade.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.?
He helped himself up to the wind's foremost blow
On a hillock where the moon searched his impecunious pockets,
Waking a flood in his eyes like swelled teats.
He opened wide to receive the Lady, this Endymion cheats,
No worm-wood virus but sweet philtre phials.
Finishing, he is a lover...
He sought the bosom of Erebus in her wildest glow.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
A scavenger cat clawing a bushman's billy-can
Some hard laid by in his work, purred with surveillance
In disgust over him turning tins over in the bin.
Together he cast the lid by to biltong and raisin:
The cat devours, he abandons the prandial dance.
Pausing, he is a server...
He ate them all like yams those starved seamen.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
Over the mellowy orchard, for a while he blotted,
Down the glen he skied on the mossy rock
And rubbed clean in the steamy fume of the fall.
Clambering on the paddock, the love-grass over him gall
His rag-patches, bee-combed, mock.
Swearing, he is a dreamer...
He tore tearfully through the palliasse of touch-me-not.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
Now upon the road of life, he chanced
And espied himself the mutest spectre dust,
Cruising his hour in the propelled sleep of night.
He saw himself waft from this mount to that bight
And saw it was not wont or just.
Laughing, he is a god...
But this infidel purpose of man be countenanced.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
(©: T. Wignesan,1948 (from the collection: T. Wignesan. Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Blinks through bloodshot walks
When at five-thirty
In the rubbed-eye haziness
Of ferreting lonesome night walks
The camera-eye refugee
Asleep in the half wakefulness
Of the hour
Peers out of his high turbanned sockets:
Hyde Park's through road links
London's diurnally estranged couple -
The Arch and Gate.
When at five-thirty
The foot falls gently
Of the vision cut in dark recesses
And the man, finger gingerly on the fly
Gapes dolefully about
For a while
Exchanges a casual passing word
Standing in the Rembrandtesque clefts
And the multipled ma'm'selle trips out:
Neat and slick.
They say you meet the girls at parties
And get deeper than swine in orgies.
When at five-thirty
The fisherman's chilled chips
Lie soggy and heeled under the Arch
Where patchy transparent wrappers cling
To slippery hands jingling the inexact change
That mounted the trustful fisherman's credit:
The stub legged fisher of diplomat
And cool cat
And the prostitutes' confidant;
Each shivering pimp's warming pan.
Then at five-thirty
The bowels of Hyde Park
Improperly growled and shunted
And shook the half-night-long
Lazily swaggering double-deckers,
Suddenly as in a rude recollection,
To break and pull, grind and swing away
And around, drawing the knotting air after
Curling and unfurling on the pavements.
And at five-thirty
The prostrate mindful old refugee
Dares not stir
Nor cares to wake and swallow
The precisely half-downed bottle
Of Coke clinging to the pearly dew
Nor lick the clasp knife clean
Lying bare by a tin of' skewed top
Corned beef, incisively culled
Look! that garden all spruced up
An incongruous lot of hair on that bald pate
No soul stirs in there but the foul air
No parking alongside but from eight to eight.
Learning so hard and late
No time to scratch the bald pate.
At five-thirty-one
A minute just gone
The thud is on, the sledge-hammer yawns
And in the back of ears, strange noises
As from afar and a million feet tramp.
One infinitesimal particle knocks another
And the whirl begins in a silent rage
And the human heart beats harder
While in and around, this London
This atomic mammoth roams
In the wastes of wars and tumbling empires.
(© T. Wignesan 1956, London; from T. Wignesan. Tracks of a Tramp. (A first collection of poems: 1948-61) Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Where Are the Birds of Wenzhou, Bei Bei
‘The skies are empty and grey at dawn,
They’re empty and brown at noon,
Where are the birds of Wenzhou, Bei Bei
Deep in the afternoon?
Even at dusk when the air is still
Or the cool breath heaves from the sea,
I wait for the beat of wings then, Bei Bei
Rushing to comfort me.’
‘The birds were once when the paddy fields
Ran down by the river tides,
When the sky was blue and the air was clean
And the trees reached up to the stars.
The birds were here when the skies were clear
No buildings blocked the view...’
‘But where are the birds of Wenzhou, Bei Bei
Why have they gone from you? ’
‘They left when the smog came rolling in
And the insects died on the ground,
When the grass turned white and the acid rain
Caused all the trees to drown.
They left when the river turned yellow mud
And the fields died under the road,
When men built towers of thirty floors,
They left the town in droves.’
The skies are empty and grey at dawn,
They’re empty and brown at noon.
‘The birds of Wenzhou took their nests
And travelled to old Hangzhou.
They went to live by a wondrous lake
That tales will tell, is blue...’
‘Where are the birds of Wenzhou, Bei Bei...
Have they forsaken you? ’
8 November 2005
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Roofs
(For Amelia Josephine Burr)
The road is wide and the stars are out
and the breath of the night is sweet,
And this is the time when wanderlust should seize upon my feet.
But I'm glad to turn from the open road and the starlight on my face,
And to leave the splendour of out-of-doors for a human dwelling place.
I never have seen a vagabond who really liked to roam
All up and down the streets of the world and not to have a home:
The tramp who slept in your barn last night and left at break of day
Will wander only until he finds another place to stay.
A gypsy-man will sleep in his cart with canvas overhead;
Or else he'll go into his tent when it is time for bed.
He'll sit on the grass and take his ease so long as the sun is high,
But when it is dark he wants a roof to keep away the sky.
If you call a gypsy a vagabond, I think you do him wrong,
For he never goes a-travelling but he takes his home along.
And the only reason a road is good, as every wanderer knows,
Is just because of the homes, the homes, the homes to which it goes.
They say that life is a highway and its milestones are the years,
And now and then there's a toll-gate where you buy your way with tears.
It's a rough road and a steep road and it stretches broad and far,
But at last it leads to a golden Town where golden Houses are.
poem by Joyce Kilmer
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Goodbye's
Mamma
You gave life to me
Turned a baby into a lady
And mamma
All you had to offer
Was the promise of a lifetime of love
Now I know
There is no other
Love like a mother's love for her child
And I know
A love so complete
Someday must leave
Must say goodbye
Goodbye's the saddest word I'll ever hear
Goodbye's the last time I will hold you near
Someday you'll say that word and I will cry
It'll break my heart to hear you say goodbye
Mamma
You gave love to me
Turned a young one into a woman
And mamma
All I ever needed
Was a guarantee of you loving me
'Cause I know
There is no other
Love like a mother's love for her child
And it hurts so
That something so strong
Someday will be gone, must say goodbye
Goodbye's the saddest word I'll ever hear
Goodbye's the last time I will hold you near
Someday you'll say that word and I will cry
It'll break my heart to hear you say goodbye
But the love you give will always live
You'll always be there every time I fall
You offered me the greatest love of all
You take my weakness and you make me strong
And I will always love you 'till forever comes
And when you need me
I'll be there for you always
I'll be there your whole life through
I'll be there this I promise you, mamma
I'll be your beacon through the darkest nights
I'll be the wings that guide your broken flight
I'll be your shelter through the raging storm
And I will love you 'till forever comes
Goodbye's the saddest word I'll ever hear
Goodbye's the last time I will hold you near
Someday you'll say that word and I will cry
It'll break my heart to hear you say goodbye
'Till we meet again...
Until then...
Goodbye
song performed by by Celine Dion
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pantun - Arus deras sungei Klang setelah hujan lebat (translated to English)
arus deras setelah hujan lebat
cepat ubah wajahnya sungei klang
bagai kuala lumpur di susuli ekonomi pesat
dulu pekerja ladang skrang towkay kilang
the water is treacherous after the rain
the klang river is fast to change her image
like kuala lumpur after the fast economic progress
those farmers some are now factory owners
arus deras sungei klang setelah hujan lebat
bagai kuala lumpur di susuli ekonomi hebat
bangunan tingi lambang pembagunan pesat
ibu kota yang mulai dari lumpur ke suatu pusat
river klang is choppy after a bout of rain
like kuala lumpur after its economic growth
high buildings are signs of development
the city that grows from a mud estuary to an important centre
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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I Dreamed Of Forest Alleys fair
I.
I DREAMED of forest alleys fair
And fields of gray-flowered grass,
Where by the yellow summer moon
My Jenny seemed to pass.
I dreamed the yellow summer moon,
Behind a cedar wood,
Lay white on fields of rippling grass
Where I and Jenny stood.
I dreamed - but fallen through my dream,
In a rainy land I lie
Where wan wet morning crowns the hills
Of grim reality.
II.
I am as one that keeps awake
All night in the month of June,
That lies awake in bed to watch
The trees and great white moon.
For memories of love are more
Than the white moon there above,
And dearer than quiet moonshine
Are the thoughts of her I love.
III.
Last night I lingered long without
My last of loves to see.
Alas! the moon-white window-panes
Stared blindly back on me.
To-day I hold her very hand,
Her very waist embrace -
Like clouds across a pool, I read
Her thoughts upon her face.
And yet, as now, through her clear eyes
I seek the inner shrine -
I stoop to read her virgin heart
In doubt if it be mine -
O looking long and fondly thus,
What vision should I see?
No vision, but my own white face
That grins and mimics me.
IV.
Once more upon the same old seat
In the same sunshiny weather,
The elm-trees' shadows at their feet
And foliage move together.
The shadows shift upon the grass,
The dial point creeps on;
The clear sun shines, the loiterers pass,
As then they passed and shone.
But now deep sleep is on my heart,
Deep sleep and perfect rest.
Hope's flutterings now disturb no more
The quiet of my breast.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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And The Grass Won't Pay No Mind (Undubbed Master)
Listen easy, you can hear God calling
Walking barefoot by the stream
Come on to me, Your hair's softly falling
On my face as in a dream
And the time will be our time
And the grass won't pay no mind
Saying nothing, lying where the sun is
Baking down upon our sides
My lips touch you, with their soft wet kisses
Your hands gentle in reply
And the time will be our time
And the grass won't pay no mind
Child, touch my soul with your cries
And the music will know what we've found
I, hear a hundred good-byes
But today I hear only one sound
The moment we're living is now
Now now now now now now now
Young bird flying, and a soft wind blowing
Cools the sweat inside my palms
Close my eyes, hear the flowers growing
As you lay sleeping in my arms
And the time will be our time
And the grass won't pay no mind
No the grass won't pay no mind
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Your Turn
Now there is this day, a lot of things are changing
Can't just kick it away, got to get things right
Sometimes it happens fast and nothin' seems to last
The thing that I once started isn't mine anymore
I guess now it's my turn
You've got a face like a child, got a mind like a woman
Your smile is warm and tender
I hear the people say that I should stay away
]From you and all the problems you might bring
They'll never know--you
Nobody ever knows what to do
They'll never see you cry
They'll never know why
Now it's your turn to break free
When you want it all you've got to see
Now it's your turn to break free
When you want the life, you've got to see what it means
See the little boy holding mama's hand
His eyes can see the things we've long forgotten
The world is easy now--and somehow
He's right
Until there is this day when Mickey Mouse must go away
It's your turn to break free. . .
This world is crying to be free
This world is dying can't you see
We need a turn to do it right
We need a mind-revolution
To get away from this selfishness
Stop playing blind--break free
song performed by by Helloween
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Doors Are Locked
From inside of this room
I shall not exit
I have locked the doors
To the world outside.
It does not matter to me what is happening outside, because
Behind these locked doors
Is the world that I live in,
This land of my dreams that
I have fabricated for myself alone.
I recall my father recently reading me a story-
Of a woman who created a world within her dreams-
There she lived and locked herself
Inside of the doors that
Barred her from all that is real.
My father's hope was that
I would find my way out from
This place he called the land of my delusions.
This place which he calls the land of my delusions has become
My only veracity.
From the inside of this room
I shall not exit-it is here I safely converse with
The voices inside of my mind.
The doors to this room are locked, but
I can still hear my mother weeping, and
I hear my mother cry out from the midst of her tears-
What has become of my only child?
Inside of this room, I have constructed a world.
The doors are locked and
I have shut reality out-
The doors to my room are locked and
I have lost the key.
My mother is still weeping as her one and only
Has lost the key that would open the doors
To the world outside-
My mother is sobbing; the key is lost and alas-
Her only child's sanity has also been lost.
poem by Claudia Krizay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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