Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.
(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.)
In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor
Sewing a shroud for a journey
By the light of the meat-eating sun.
Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun,
With my red veins full of money,
In the final direction of the elementary town
I advance as long as forever is.

Added: Feb 20 2003 | Viewed: 4704 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Dylan Thomas
Poem: Twenty-Four Years

Year: Published/Written in 1938
Poem of the Day on:
Apr 26 2003
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