Ivan Sokac


No reward, no throne.

Neither the place of honor

Neither made out of the gold, nor made out of thorns.

I do not need a crown...


Defiant to admire me but pitiful,

to follow me with fear.

To devour me lives full of hunger

Souls of unfortunate vagabonds. All different ones


There are a lot of half-empty barrels.

They stink like mold

And the wine turns darker,

like blood on a piece of cotton.


And when leaking starts in the water spout

The drops are racing one another.

And their feet give them away, badly.

Numb or dead below the waist.



Todos los derechos pertenecen a su autor. Ha sido publicado en e-Stories.org a solicitud de Ivan Sokac.
Publicado en e-Stories.org el 14.10.2019.


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