I remember that spicy breeze migling
with the solar lemon sapling
in the gardens of Babylon..
The southern gate is closed
on the bitter fruits of the night .
The dream donned the dark armor
and swords subdue poetry ...
The gardeners with promises of bliss
have become merchants in Venice...
Sem's children play war fame
immolating the virgin ,
tracing on the walls the seal of the beast
with a fertile crescent belly ...
The cohort of faithful rats bow before
the compassionate face of the golden fish !
I was born from the moist softness
of a vegetal mist ...
Palm and pomegranate trees
leading over my crib ...
Waterfall's melody telling me
ancient legends from the enchanted
land of Sumer...
Is happiness nothing more than this madness
that savors itself in the scorching wind
of a fleeting wind covered by sand
like a thousand broken mirrors shattered
in nostalgia ?
O great Mithra now you have become
a drunkard mocked by the crowds or Rome !
And I am nothing but that pedlar
of poor nonsens that make fat poodles snicker !
I keep this floral revenge in a ring of Saturn ...
Nobody knows that the poet always carries
a cold taste of death ...
In these gardens of burning brambles
and thirsty brushwood where time
stands still ...
A torn moon calls me with the lament
of unspoken desires ...
Then the gate of dawn will be open !
You will return to me beautiful Semiramis .
I will lead you to the secret groves
where voices will recount us
the ancient legends of the enchanted
land of Sumer !
Your mouth bitting into the fruit of delights...
Secret inner gardens .
-
Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: January 27th, 2026 11:48
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
- Users favorite of this poem: Ellen Marsell, nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson)
Offline)
Comments2
A secret inner garden, where poetry is still alive, where desire and memory do not submit to history. A beautiful poem.
A sensual and memorial mental space .
On clay tablets copper is sold a deal poorly made. In Gobekli Tepe people gathered to celebrate gods of sun. A wonderful write or maybe rite Lorenz
âna šipir širipim ša ir anniti aqbù ( akkadian translation)
The master of the garden is back .
Tell him the grass needs to be cut
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