Oh Zarathustra, God is dead,
A million people in their bed.
The saints are gone,
No miracles wept,
As night and morning slept.
Dreams of hell, fire and death.
Memories of true regress.
A moment of, surpasses true,
Devine but fortune , bloomed to swoon.
The midnight nocturnal, weeping moon.
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Author:
RSM (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 22nd, 2026 07:15
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 4
Offline)
Comments1
Such a lovely beginning to this poem. It brings to mind the music Also sprach Zarathustra chosen to start 2001 Space Odyssey nicely done
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