The descent has never been easy.
You have to let yourself go without rushing
and without a single hope,
as a waste stone
soaking into the abyss
that stares
with hungry eyes,
almost wistfully
for blood and sinews.
There will always be a ledge
or a soft mattress of soil
a bit withered or parched
where you can take cover,
an urgent vantage point
inviting to stay
and watch
the powerful trench
in the middle of all,
between the nothingness
and anything.
There will always be the light
calling from
the height
to be yearned
with no possible returning.
Because falling down is not easy.
It demands sinking into the chasm
till its deepest
throb,
its deepest
emptiness with no other parachute
than idleness
and horror
of the same,
with tragic persistence,
nearly dying.
And then getting lost yourself,
with no more memories
than the dark
opened forward,
getting closed
backward,
in the thresholds
of the time devoured
irremediably,
with no head cornerstone,
nor lost paradise,
or victory
to remember it.
