Letters, syllables, words stuck under broken nails,
ink – dry or immortal, face and shirt – wrinkled or old,
rhymes pouring onto the paper entangled in barbed grayish hair,
clattering empty fingers, a cross on a pearlless neck,
a mouldy loyal typewriter or just a rebellious feather,
thoughts herded together and acrid cigarette smoke…
Named Marina or Anna, with an aquiline nose, or another
poetess confronted her madness is writing indelible lines.
Torn nerves turned into stanzas, sonnets composed of grief,
flirtatiously faithful muses, dust on the hardbound lives –
they are her solemn response to a hundred heartbreaking whys,
they are her only reason, they are her lonely prize.