George Bacovia

Nocturne

 Next Poem          

I'm stuck here ... and the slush drips, water, mud ...
To know nothing again, there'd be one method -
A gas lamp's in the throes, it's there, it's not there, -
An alcoholic crosses the dismal square.

Soaked in the heavy dampness the town sleeps.
Between these walls she too sleeps, perhaps, -
Houses of iron in brick houses,
And the heavy doors close.
Upstairs the quiet humming of a piano;
Struck like a gloomy sack in the clouds, my shadow -
Drops spurt,
It's snowing slops,
From a window, in a vase,
A yellow rose looks down..

Next Poem 

 Back to George Bacovia