The Ones Who Don't Belong 1.

Poem By Liāna Langa

I wake suddenly from deep sleep.
In the forest's undergrowth my shadow roams.
Hundred-thousand-year greedy muzzles suck
moisture clinging to a vessel of mist.


Like a large wet green tea leaf
the sky swims into my eyes - the narrows
do not frighten it. Star ships
nestle close to me, the wreck.


I don't know what the beasts will tell me,
don't understand why my visitors are silent.
I was your key, the new wine
that the devout locked away in dark barrels.


In a trance the dark breathes, dissolves,
casts in my features other reflections
of other bygones, other lives
and then inside a large part of me dies.


I suddenly wake from a deep sleep
as the grains of your hail erode my face.
Someone in an owl's voice says: God
but your hand is empty, empty.

Translated by: Margita Gailītis

Comments about The Ones Who Don't Belong 1.

Lovely poem, well articulated and nicely penned in good diction with conviction. Thanks for sharing.
grains of your hail erode my face Great conceptualization. Thanks for sharing.10 points.


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Other poems of LANGA

The Ones Who Don't Belong 2.

Leaves frost-bitten by a harsh night rustle between my fingers.
A rook siddles closer
to a cross painted mud-colour. A white pebble thrown against
the cheap granite slab summons an echo

The Ones Who Don't Belong 3.

You say to me - summer? Stop! Too much of glowing flesh, glassy
grey light on eyelids, the odour of decaying melons. Maybe
a movie, ditam, ditam? Dipetti, dipetti, perhaps to the Antarctic?
Don't be angry. Escape heals, but only for a space of time, just until

The Ones Who Don't Belong 4.

Come, life's winter! In a corner of a window ledge a titmouse
pecks at a bit of bacon
whiter than the city's snow. Lemon yellow sunbeam bagpipes
tangle in tree branches sounding funeral marches. Racing clouds

The Ones Who Don't Belong 5.

A roadside garden queen boards the train Aizkraukle - Riga.
She's wearing rubber boots, a grey moustache
above a chapped mouth.

The Ones Who Don't Belong 6.

Farewell, homo mediocris! We dream and sleep still among roe
subtly rose. So slow their movement, so sticky. As if someone
will come shortly to glue our transparent flesh together.
We can do it ourselves! Just the water doesn't permit it,