Nameless Grave

Demonic fires blaze in the eye of the stone palace,

and me,

I only stand in the dark beneath the sky

that reaches its invisible hands

out towards scores of nameless graves.

For callous politicians,

they are but nameless graves

upon which no one’s tear fell.

They were silently and swiftly buried into the black soil,

without speeches and tears,

without too many imprints

on the black soil.

(They say that everyone’s life is worth attention,

and that the dark truth is that only death equally appreciates each life)

And while they treacherously, silently and swiftly

dug a new nameless grave,

only death was faithfully listening to the crickets

feverishly spluttering away in the dark

to honor the dead poet.

In the hazy grave lies the poet,

like a shadow of many dreams,

and the raindrop,

brought from the honorable mountain

by the honorable wind,

softly and timidly trembles

on the dead poet’s white face,

like an angel’s tear.

And politicians, tycoons, church pontiffs

are sitting in the golden loges now,

ghastly and faithfully acting:

the righteous, the charitable, the Believers,

crying their copper voices

out into Croatian silence,

like a copper bell,

and the dead poet

now waits for one tear

in a nameless grave.



I am standing in the street of my childhood,

and the blue April sky

rises above me,

glittering like a dreamy eye.

Down here, the wind is marching

behind my dark memories,


but unfaltering,

like a tiller behind his plow.


Tell me, steady wind:

How shall I escape the screams of the past?

For years you’ve been pushing me to all corners of the world,

as I was your unwanted child.

You know, wind,

that with my restless spirit, I belong more to You

than to myself.

From You, I inherited the yearning

to travel the world and seek:

the Morning in a golden cradle,

the Day in an angel’s embrace,

the Night in a bloody dress,

and midnight in black,

that preys on lust

like death preys on life.


I am standing in the street of my childhood,

next to the same window

from which I used to gaze at you, wind,

during my childhood,

and dream of the day

when I would fly on Your soft, sweet back

to a better world,

far away from poverty;

the flies captured in the spider’s web,

the miserable cries of worms

eternally crawling beneath the feet of soulless masters,

far away from the grass

and the tear-swept flowers.

I am standing next to the window

in the street of my childhood,

as if standing next to a bloody cradle,

and the memories,

my ashamed children,

cry out into this April night

with their silent screams,

reaching their invisible hands

out to me.

And I,

driven by the gales,

I am rolling across the world,

like a raindrop

looking for its grave,

in the cracks of the arid crust

of the betrayed earth.



Walter William Safar was born on August 6th 1958. He is the author of a number of a significant number of prose works and novels, including “Leaden fog”, “Chastity on sale”, “In the falmes of passion”, “The price of life”, “Above the clouds”, “The infernal circle”, “The scream”, “The negotiator”, “Queen Elizabeth II”, as well as a book of poems, titled “The angel and the demon”.

Listed at Duotrope
Listed with Poets & Writers
CLMP Member
List with Art Deadline
Follow us on MagCloud