Monday, November 01, 2010

Europe after the Rain...

So far it's been
From within a cave
Crafted with slow deeps
Underneath a stair
During my sleep
I endure visions
Of the mightiest port
The kinder skin of grass
And flowers in the fall
In my dream
The stench of the smoke
Pouring out of the skin
Into the cells of cement
Is transformed into waters
That navigate through the nails
Shun off the call of one's death
I see snails and rows of houses
But I hear only waters
They suffocate in the small islands
Twisted from their own thirst
To love the meadows of sand
The crave for piles of hay
Burning in spectacular yellows
Every scrap of paper, a riviera
Keeping the secrets
Of journeys yet undone
Everything vanishes into plaster
Into the smells of unwashed cloth
Into the distance
Kneeling down before the dreams
Begging for another minute
Of delusion
Of a better world
Or a real port
Where the cave
Is transformed into the light
Where the silence
Becomes louder than the tide
The elbows of the poet
Are visible at dusk
The young flesh bruised by the hours
Of the pen
Wearing the thinness of the lotus
Reaching out
Without dying
And also without falling
For kinder words
For another world

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