A tremor of moonlight has withered on the farmyard.
In its passing gray shadows appear
Dropping from eaves,
Scuttling from the straw and between the fallen leaves.
They follow a path only seen by their pink beady eyes.
Hunger for the most grotesque items
Driving their desire,
Shapes already dead, mist from rotten food.
They speak as if insane
As if a rat moon had processed them;
Then they find the grain and fruit,
And quarrel endlessly in the darkness.
© Fingleton (novembre 2016) (Löst Viking)
Photo: Georg Trakl (Reaction to his great poem ‘The Rats’)