The sights of the earthly city can no longer provide any solace,
Unfolding with the soaking illness of the thin air
Envolving it into a warp of turbid water... into a fantastic stone
I cannot quite relief myself from the wrath of my joy
I rush through small alleys deflecting defeats in every mirror
Losing my speech as my love grows sickened yet kindred
The zeals of life stand aloof, like lies in biffurcation
I no longer recognize the passages, the words
They all seem unhindered from my burdensome march
The acheing stops no sooner than the life
The stone transforms everything into a piyyut
And the dancers bewailed by the viola
An illuminated pit, summons me therein, from within
And I enter from behind as not to awake the filth
That my body feels to be a song of its own device
Approaching the forest, with orgiastic mornings
Undying the oaks from an old box of letters
Unexpected the day, nighting away with the sift of time
The silence collides in those poems, those verses
That forecast a cosmic order in which nature deadens us
With the impulse of vitality that only the breathlessness recognizes
The dream can no longer be true
The train station empties itself from expectations
A clean sidewalk, showing the ways back to Dante
It is a Godless square, whereby prayers gather
And they supplicate, for the sake of Prometheus
For the sake of hope, in utmost appointment
About no less than themselves
Desireless and wearisome, from journeys without destinations
They all gather in a Godless square
The lives
The prayers
The un-loves.
No comments:
Post a Comment