Seven Five

Seven Five

Lying, dying silently on a muddy ground I was.

Conscious, unconscious down there I did remain.

Dead or alive looking forward for something, perhaps.

Such a wrong deed I surely did that I cannot explain.

A gaudy swirl of white light upon me lit.

As soul and mind struggling were to survive.

A candle? Maybe some? I scarcely saw it.

Seven the number I could weakly contrive.

Oh! divine flames of angles, deluge of hope.

The mild voices of glory spoke my name,

Fading away through weary judges of black robe.

The deadly sentence’s done, seven demons came.

Forbidden destination of my sinful filthy past

Buried me deeply down with the curse I cast.

Sepúlveda 2007

Poem for Egdar Allan Poe, written by a great literature teacher I had.

Saludos