Borodin
Will never again raise his baton, But the orchestra plays Tashkent, Bukhara, Samarkand. Wind is a thread Hanging From distant mountains. Steppe grasses hiss And sand, More sand, blows. A pony waits, Feet together, Head down. Dusk drifts Like a violet scarf Across day's face, Hush, hush, Quiet, Still. Here at time's end there is Salt But no tears. Robert Walton This poem was previously published at Fictionique. Robert Walton is a musician with several dozen published poems. He says: "My novel Dawn Drums was recently awarded first place in the 2014 Arizona Authors Association’s literary contest and also won the 2014 Tony Hillerman Best Fiction Award. Barry Malzburg and I wrote “The Man Who Murdered Mozart”, published by Fantasy & SF in 2011."
2 Comments
Kathy
3/25/2016 06:46:39 pm
Very nice, Bob!
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January 2021
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