Unsurprisingly These parting lips Receive the last breath Of a withering cloud Among so many crosses Held up high By unabiding corpses I rest my bones White Herbal-tasting wine Is spilling From a wound in the sky There is no pleasure In this House of God Where angels lose their fingers One by one Where saints and shadows Override And specks of spoiled light Are placed over the altar Here, undoubtedly, All prayers die
Maria Cohut is a young Romanian writer currently searching for more inspiration, thrills and like-minded peers in the UK. She has completed a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Warwick and is now looking forward to an MA combining her passion for literature, history and visual art. Samples of her work and insights into her obsessions can be found on her blog, Encyclopaedia Vanitatum: a dictionary of spectral curiosities at amphisbaina.livejournal.com/