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Contemporary International Poetry

issue 9904:06

Peter Horn

It is the night of black rainbow
and the undulating silence,
the night of the colourless butterflies.

It is the night of the dark viola,
the night of the telephone wires humming,
greeting the white serpent of the mist
which rises from the sea.

It is the night when the weathervanes wheel
on the airfield in boredom,
it is the night when the grief of the women
fills the air with endless wailing.

It is the night of the drawn out scream,
when the men walk chained to their trembling,
when the rhythm of their steps
sends shivers down your spine.