The old woman and the drunks

Free AI web copilot to create summaries, insights and extended knowledge, download it at here

1244

Abstract

ask for help? If you leave, you lose. If you leave, you save yourself. Those who remain are dividing up your clothes. Drunks are singing and paying attention to their own enthusiasm. When the time comes they’ll release their joy will sleep under authentic moon and die outdoors. Do you know what are you now? They have decided. You are the one who is alone the one imprisoned the one that ends up clapping the one who dresses up. They will share your body among the needy. The Party is fair. Time ago, everyone in town had their own nickname. It is not needed now. Drunks follow the script like the reapers the jokers thieves. Without alcohol there is no strength. The collective rejoices. Do you remember how much fun we had? The Party deals the cards.</p><p id="cc68">The old woman scarf tied to the head collects flowers and plants for potions that heal still after one century and other. Under weight of wrinkles in silent observes. Others /they/ watch you. She hunches over and survives. The old woman only smiles when the drunk sing or curse. When the yellow waves of wheat merges with the yellow hair of the quiet girl under yellow back of man who follows the pulse of the wheat spikes hidden both / under a moaning yellow wind. The o

Options

ld woman shows her few teeth when the gypsy picks up his violin and the dancers get ready. Time will pass faster with every turn of the dance. But soon a cluster of old women lean over the table. Their gazes still and small looking at God in the empty. Widows or virgins, they know how the story will end they know how many hours you have left.</p><p id="4f7b">The gypsy reads the lines of the hand. As in a map it is distinguished the land of the hoe the brush marks the applauses and goodbyes. The gypsy dies and takes the violin. The innocents are exhausted. Everything is like a song of some drunks early in the morning so drunk that, quiet, they wonder how could we endure so much?</p><div id="e820" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/the-power-of-poetry-3d8dfd2beecc"> <div> <div> <h2>The Power of Poetry</h2> <div><h3>how to submit?</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*OfAwmC7ROJ7Why-jpZe6FQ.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

POETRY

(DALL-E & Kumori, after Czech film “All my good countrymen”)

All the drunks sing and they get sad on the last chord like any dancing animal. Who could have a girlfriend to hug a dog to be received faithfully who could own a land’s piece to make deep grooves and plant a tree. At dawn sings the sun the desire to rise. But men came with megaphones and slogans / uniformed they established the measures they decided the language distributing medals and fears. The sun was a yellow grimace. The drunks still sang. Behind the window the old eyes of the century see passing the new order the new black suits the mighty useless steps and wonder what will they be after when things change. The old drunks singing their sorrows.

Some people left. You squeezed the few belongings against the chest. The picture of the Virgin that your mother gave to you that she received from your grandma takes up space too much. Who are you going to ask for help? If you leave, you lose. If you leave, you save yourself. Those who remain are dividing up your clothes. Drunks are singing and paying attention to their own enthusiasm. When the time comes they’ll release their joy will sleep under authentic moon and die outdoors. Do you know what are you now? They have decided. You are the one who is alone the one imprisoned the one that ends up clapping the one who dresses up. They will share your body among the needy. The Party is fair. Time ago, everyone in town had their own nickname. It is not needed now. Drunks follow the script like the reapers the jokers thieves. Without alcohol there is no strength. The collective rejoices. Do you remember how much fun we had? The Party deals the cards.

The old woman scarf tied to the head collects flowers and plants for potions that heal still after one century and other. Under weight of wrinkles in silent observes. Others /they/ watch you. She hunches over and survives. The old woman only smiles when the drunk sing or curse. When the yellow waves of wheat merges with the yellow hair of the quiet girl under yellow back of man who follows the pulse of the wheat spikes hidden both / under a moaning yellow wind. The old woman shows her few teeth when the gypsy picks up his violin and the dancers get ready. Time will pass faster with every turn of the dance. But soon a cluster of old women lean over the table. Their gazes still and small looking at God in the empty. Widows or virgins, they know how the story will end they know how many hours you have left.

The gypsy reads the lines of the hand. As in a map it is distinguished the land of the hoe the brush marks the applauses and goodbyes. The gypsy dies and takes the violin. The innocents are exhausted. Everything is like a song of some drunks early in the morning so drunk that, quiet, they wonder how could we endure so much?