Here I am descending.
There was no time, nor a slight four-line stanza
to kill the eagerness and the indolence.
The distant oceans fell back
in a swarm of sonatas and songs
raptured by this voiceless portrayal
made of hearts without any destiny.
Here were rocked
the days and the everlasting nights
riddled of horrors,
as gleaming flowers
in delightful clouds of summer dust.
Here the scab of life.
Here the nerve in frenzy.
The letter dropping
in spurt, in lumps
of words that lost
its sound.
Another enigma,
another wretched Ulysses
decoding the runes
written by Aeolus,
invisible strands with no path
nor fate.
But in distance
and time I break through
towards the sweet dream
I cannot reach.
Here I am descending.
Because the life outshined
in shadow is oblivion.
It is a nourishing pulp.
It is a yearning pushing
the deep
roots of a dusk.
