poem of the day: Hours by Vicente Huidobro

Hours

Vicente Huidobro

A small town
A train stopped on the plain

Deaf stars sleep
in every puddle
And the water trembles
Curtains to the wind

                   Night hangs in the grove

A lively drizzle
From the flower-covered steeple
Bleeds the stars

         Now and then
Ripe hours

                   Drop on life

Lonely Town [Explored]

Huidobro on Creationism

Nothing anecdotic or descriptive. The emotion has to be born out of creativity only.

Make a poem as nature makes a tree.

One must create. This is the sign of our time.

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