Tuesday, April 03, 2007

City Light

I am weary from those voices, that adrift as they are, stand on the way to my heirloom of reveries
Therein ghosts keep me company, with such glaring melodies that resemble memories
The acustic echoes of the ashes find me predominantly uncomfortable, tired from wayfaring
It is a mild linguistic perversion, concealed from the daylight, hiding in hinges of the tiny hills
It awakes only at night, mercilessly, so as to devour the words from previous conversations
Bereft of destinations, quite unsound and glittering with ambar and opalum in the skin of the mud
Whilst at the same time I walk upright beneath the broken slies of white shadowy storeys
My mind crouches before every little object of delight, drunk from flowing with mortality
The objects have faces and stare into me as though I were starry and puzzled in blue and black
God wears a prayershawl that hangs from one thread of the tiny house to the other
Covering the whole of the firmament with anger and desire, with motion toward the rivers
That spring forth from the sleeplessness of my bed, sinking older boats with fresher tiles
In dresses of summer and crosses, vantaging the whole of the earthly city from one little glass
Feeling kind enough as to remain so very distracted from the callous visitation of strangers
Gathering alimonies for future pilgrims in the streets of the city's furious calm, furious yielding
Welcoming them with shut doors, with Biblical signals fingering at each other
Delaying the arrival of the foreigner, preventing him from reaching any destination
Thus, the streets remain so monotonous and colourless, the air so thick and jealous
From the light-heartedness of the stones, with their wafting from one thing into the other
Carnivals of orgiastic movements, dances and joyuous festivities, all befogged by timelessness
Flattering with the wind, kissing his feet with a strike of luck, weaving a thread thither
Swiftly navigating under the spell of status in broad day light, surprised at the ease of the road
Intoxicated from the mortal spell of every living thing, from the devotion of beauty and death
For no one but one another
Happy about the forest, that is intimate only with himself
Yearning for the next traveler, that will lose his way into the city.

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