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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

MY HAND TREMBLES, by                    
First Line: The bells are singing to wake the dead
Last Line: Like birds of the fields.
Subject(s): Dadaism; Death; Fear; Dead, The


The bells are singing to wake the dead
we go along our way lost in the crowd;
like birds of the fields.
Trees, flowers, and animals, are beings
more sensitive than men.
But I, I have a blindfold over my eyes,
not to see the sunsets;
the sunsets are not beautiful enough
and make me weep;
the moon is not beautiful enough;
women are not beautiful enough;
only the armourers' shops allure me,
they charm me because I do not like to hunt,
I do not like to fight,
and I'm afraid to die.

One day my grandfather said to my dad:
It's as hard to break from death as it is from life;
and I found the thought so beautiful
that I shrugged my shoulders
and discreetly tried to turn the conversation.
Life is insensate;
spring is in autumn
autumn in spring
summer in winter and winter in summer;

I'd rather have my tears
and my new hat.
I shuffle underfoot
the butterflies so daintily turned in color
for all beauty is natural vice
but the bells are singing to wake the dead
like birds of the fields.





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