“--Your headache--I am trying to imagine itYour head is in your handsThe nurse is pouring pills onto a plateNovember againToo lateYour headacheIt is a birdWounded, in leavesIts sweet bird’s nest is full of pain in a distant placeNovemberThere are daisiesIn the ruined garden, still blooming strangelyAnd in a manic yellow hat, the old ladyAnd the old man, dead in his bedAnd their daughter, the saint:Her dark, religious hair gets tangled in the branchesShe is screaming, grabbingWhile the nurses play Mozart in another roomWhile the bats fly over the roofSnatch the black notes from the blacknessLaughingYou cryI am going to dieI can see them through this windowTheir little black capesThe touching ugliness of their little faces”
-
Working on it...
-
Working on it...
-
Working on it...
-
Working on it...
Similar quotes
“You can't keep the birds of sadness from flying over your head, but you can keep them from nesting in your hair.”
“You cannot stop the birds of sorrow from flying over your head, but you can stop them nesting in your hair.”
“All of this happened a long time ago. But not so long ago that everyone who played a part in it is dead. Some can still be met in dark old rooms with nurses in attendance.”
“No, you cannot stop the birds of sorrow from flying over your head, but you can stop them from building nests in your hair.”
“It’s amazing how much a frail old woman will confide in a visiting nurse.’ She laughed and shook her head. ‘Imagine pouring out your soul to someone stooped over a bedpan.’ She took another puff, and once more blew smoke at me. I took hold of her wrist.”