Crucifixion prose poem

Photo by Smabs Sputzer

On Christmas, Hegel smiles;
No year stands up unless a year dies. No butterfly flies up, unless a cocoon is torn out.
Crucifixion, dear gentlemen, is the ultimate dialect in the forest of a boring time.
Crucifixion, dear ladies, is another tale of the fire-bird.
Crucifixion, dear travelers to a future inhabited by past, is the resurrection of myth trees, while history stands on its head.

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (2 votes, average: 4.00 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Fareed K. Ghanem

Signup / Login to follow the poet.
I am 58 years old, from eastern Galilee, Israel (Palestine). I studied English literature, psychology and Law at the Hebrew university (Jerusalem). In the last three years, I published three books of which is dedicated to prose poetry. You are invited to visit the Facebook page Shadows of Water, where I publish my prose poems I translate to English.
Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

Be the First to Comment & Review poem!

Notify of