The Fallen Star

Poem By Qiniso Mogale

THIS is the age of iron in the throat. There.

You inhabit yourself but do not recognize yourself: you live in an abandoned vault in which you listen to your heart

while grease and oblivion spread through all your veins and

you calcify amid the pain and from your mouth

fall black syllables.


You make your way toward the invisible

and know that what does not exist is real.

Vaguely, you keep your causes and your dreams

(you still retain the fragrance of the suicides),

they feed your rage and piety.

Not much of you remains: your vertigo, your fingernails

and shadows of memories.

You think of disappearance. You caress

the cerebral darkness, drop to the liver charred by grief.


Such is the age of iron in the throat. Now

nothing can be understood. And even so,

you love as much as you have lost.

Comments about The Fallen Star

A great poem by a master. An excellent translation- Is this Wellman? I would roll a carpet under your feet, Antonio, but you are too well-grounded. Thank you is insufficient. May those with intercessory powers bless you.
I love the piece, the visceral hollowness of it all. Thank you for posting. Not much remains...your vertigo, your fingernails-fantastic
powerful and concise imagery. Nothing can be understood. nothing is real but unreality.


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