But like love
the archers
are blind
Upon the green night,
the piercing saetas
leave traces of warm
lily.
The keel of the moon
breaks through purple clouds
and their quivers
fill with dew.
Ay, but like love
the archers
are blind!
Dada – and Why It Still Matters Today
I wrote a thing about Dada and posted it on Substack: ' When Europe collapsed into the carnage of the First World War, artists and writ...
