Agents Of Midnight

From.......

AGENTS OF MIDNIGHT

A Collection Of Poetry By G.P. Stojcevic



A LETTER FROM GANDESSA......

( A Remembrance For Those Who Perished In The Spanish Civil War, And For Federico Garcia Lorca )

My dearest comrades in distant Chicago,
this still hot air of the Spanish afternoon
is filled with the ominous whispers
of iron and steel shrapnel,
as grenades fall in the
coming of twilight, like
the bright oranges of Seville.
I am here, we are all here,
at this village they call Gandessa,
gathered at a tiny cafe near the
barren cobblestoned plaza.

Death is sitting on the hilltops above,
then he rises from the stones,
wanders down the worn,
the twisting streets,
like panhandler that is down
on a near gone string of luck,
but he’s no bum,
looking for a silver dime,
no indeed,
he has come down to eat his fill,
as the snipers play a serenade
for the long regal trail of
his processional passage.

The food has just about run out,
no medicine to comfort the wounded,
just a little of the red wine
that flows like blood
down the steps we crawl.

Our leaders say we must hold,
so here we make our stand to stem
the battle with our flesh and bone,
a vision of Goya brushed on
across the whitewashed walls.

So my comrades in distant Chicago,
raise a glass as you think on us,
a toast for those now slain,
in a small town of little consequence,
a place named Gandessa,
its name our epitaph.

Now a final breath, and then to hell,
farewell my friends, farewell.










PASSING.....

Winds tear back the grey pages of dawn,
reveal faces of crystal imprint,
the silent traces of rolling dew
on the emerald spears of grass.

Look out the windows hazy eye,
observe the changes of each
distant lonely hour,
empty without promise,
a requiem upon the morning.

Candles once,
now puddles of semi firm colored wax
on a table with two dirty glasses,
all that now stands,
since your faded coat
pushed its way through
the nights forgetful door.







I