Tin
By Mario Markus
Clear tones
of organ pipes,
as smooth as the flatness
of glass
or a bronze
Egyptian mirror.
Do not lay hands on Tin,
its shape.
The inner crystals
cry out,
anticipate the cold,
the collapse to dust.
Soldiers in the snow,
scouts in endless ice
without bowls and buttons,
vanished
with the music
of broken
organs.
Whisky in Miami,
coca leaves
in mines.
Copyright © by the owner.
