Tyburn کے بول

Tyburn Words by Andrew Nicol I am touched Not by the dirt beetle Nor the crevice of night But my empathy is with a star Confiding on my shoulder Sound travels down this hill And the wind rolls up it Trembling with my budding hands That shake about my head Curl up Between my gnarled thighs Dirt beetle or lost child This time is slow and my voice Is inaudible Six feet deep Under the ground; gurgling Your palm pushes near my toe Shake dirty curly child Through the night grow(s) And through the night it grows… I think that (the) spring is five days walk from here I'll wait through and watch it come undone There's a frozen whisper near me That will chuckle come daylight In a near ditch You tilt your head upward And shake my bony hand With your blackbird glove