The enslaved acrobat
Rundown gears rumble in the night,weeping engines covered in tears and dust.The prisoner rushes into the fight,his mind is weak and overcome with rust.
The ground is harsh and unforgiving;under the sand, lie the defeated,their daggers raised below, their kingperished at their side, beheaded.
Yet the prisoner's feet fly abovelike a ghostly bird, he hoversupon the moonlit pond where love'sonly presence is scattered clovers.
The field is cold, the moon is brighta drop of blood has stained the moss.Another life is claimed tonightthe prisoner has joined the lost.
A poem in four quatrains about a prisoner acrobat on a battlefield at night.
- English
© Elliot Négrel-Jerzy. All rights reserved. Please do not reproduce this poem without permission; short quotations with attribution are welcome.
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