The journal entries here will be my (acreofbones) favourite poetry findings that are both Classic and Modern. I post when I can, as often as I can, or as often as I find poems that I fancy.
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Is it possible that we are so twisted
there is no salvation for any of us,
and that ideas have become wingless
in an age of winged rockets?
Is it possible that a crippled birch,
bending over to the last river,
will see the last man
in its boiling water?
Is it possible there’ll be no Big Ben,
Saint Basil’s, or Notre Dame
and that neutron foam will gush
over our final steps?
But that planet, cherry trees,
birds, and children will perish,
I don’t believe. This disbelief
is my final faith.
- y. yevtushenko.