Holy City

Jacobo Fijman
1898 – 1970


Three screams stabbed me with their knives.
Landscape of three screams
long with astonishment.
The shrouds of mystery have jested!
Flight of torpors;
in the paralyzed fog.
Bronze of terrors,
formless, fragmented.
Roads die
and bridges are built.

A tree mutates
by closing its pupils.

Dream’s angelic pigeons
timorously fall into the
icy nails of dread.

An infinite horror was
flowing in my entrails
in a death anthem.

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