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Fans

  The fans are flying

in the Summer heat,ablaze in theirwiry connections,above the screechingjerks of some vainand torrid rotations.Their winds of fire,humble as they are,soon enough,will be left to dieand rust in the lowerdarkness ofa dampened cellar.Yellowish, red andforgotten, they arewithout the transient,rather indifferent loveof their unfeelingmortal gods--who sold them.They will live anewin the whirling voidof  better editionsof those who will

replace them to

dream the dream

of future Summers.
    

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Country/Region: PER

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Comments

hugo la rosa

hugo la rosa

16 years 8 months ago

Dear Cassie

Thank you for your comment. Yes, I thought of the great image you just suggested, but I didn't want to sound or be too obvious. I'm glad you liked it. Regards, Hugo
K

Kenneth Sharp

16 years 8 months ago

What I liked most about this

What I liked most about this piece was you taking an apparently 'mundane' topic and capturing the melancholy beauty of its purpose, or existence. Its like you imbued this otherwise 'innocuously' inanimate object with some sort of existential sentience. Nice.
hugo la rosa

hugo la rosa

16 years 8 months ago

Kenneth Sharp

Thank you for the great critique. The poem's ambiguity has achieved its purpose, judging by your comment. Things that are used and discarded are always melancholy. Thank again for liking the poem. Regards, Hugo