Another painting by Bertha Lum


Behind the clear skies,
Of mild flower blue,
Brushed with tender cloud,
Meteors hurtle,
Comets flare,
Black holes devour stars and galaxies,
And time crumbles the corniche
Of the cosmos,
But the swallow,
Deaf to the death of worlds,
Hears only the intimate buzz
Of the mosquito.


Morning breaks
on squalid streets,
the wreckage
from all night bars.
Morning breeze
catches papers
plastic bags
and heaps them
by the drunken debris.
He lies
mouth full of bitter bile
and the slurred anger
of bar-room brawls
eyes tight closed
against the swallow-filled light.

©Ferran Pestaña
©Ferran Pestaña