Tu pure, o Principessa,. Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me,. Il nome mio nessun saprà! No, no, sulla tua bocca lo dirò,. Quando la luce splenderà! Ed il mio bacio scioglierà il silenzio. Il nome suo nessun saprà. E noi dovrem, ahimè, morir, morir! Dilegua, o notte! Even you, o Princess, in your cold room,. Watch the stars, that tremble with love and with hope.

LATE BLOOMERS a Poem by Steven Kilpatrick. These grovel churned damp soil to life. The flower off the grave. That rises, lurks and stumbles like the rose. These grovel churned damp soil to life. The flower off the grave. Drowned among rust shoveled waves. These grovel churned damp soil to life. The flower off the grave.

You cannot hear their bones rattle when they walk. You cannot see their darkness when they talk. Coffee will not satisfy them. Where they feed is desolation. The Stick Man probed the edge of her mind. It was a delicious crispy cookie, fresh from the oven. Could the dingy surroundings reflect the spirit of their owner? .

8230;From the town where I was born,. Has driven my destiny,. The town which I have lost,. My glance is greeting me in my dreams. Vom Dorf, drin ich geboren,. Trieb weit mich das Geschick,. Das Dorf, das ich verloren,. Grüßt jetzt im Traum mein Blick. Ripped from the safety of earth. Aunched at warp speed into deep space, I brace myself against the thrust. The conversation in the control room, already fragmented into squeals and clicks by static, is consumed by the raging roar of rocket engines.

An online journal of imaginative verse and prose dedicated to the magical, the ethereal, the supernatural, the dark, the absurd, and the unknown. Tuesday, October 31, 2006. Sunday, February 26, 2006. Late in the year, farmers weave haystacks tight;. Then when a globe moon drifts up seas of night,. No one of menace speaks,.