Life wasn't life after all,
it was a dream we made up
with scraps and stumps
on fierce cold days
and scaffolds of stone and hunger.
For there wasn't any why or when,
nor where or how
that's why we raised this living space,
empty and opened toward our eyes
and our cravings.
And laugh was a noise arisen
from the deepest,
terrifying darkness
at the edge of a hand
and a mouth
and a womb.
And we panted
and yearned
toward deep sunsets
and nights crowded
by lights and shadows,
and we clinged to every star
to avoid falling down, to avoid
returning to the mud we came from.
And despite the fear and the crying,
hidden under the first dawn,
there, where the death
is still beating and lying in wait
behind every caress,
we spread out colors
and shapes more iron-willed
than any imagery,
a world imagery,
a feeble butterfly
colored of eternity and glory,
and we named it,
and we made it fly up.
That's why I revere
the tenacious humanity
in those who laugh aplenty
into relentless jaw
of days and hours.
And keep talking about life
as it was made of rock
and not only of sand.
And open their hands
and their chest facing the thunder
of time
and keep dreaming the eternal
under the finite nature of an evening
made of dust and ashes.
