A space which looks nothing like itself,
Moved by birds, alike winds,
alone in itself, all alone, not deft,
the eternal start is terrible, with no need for it to be.
A space retold by the language of continuance
and turned into an eternity which nobody needs,
an eternity for curse, which awake lurks
its motionless prey under the fresh mound.
Let's forget the dark trust
us with ourselves, in the terrible suspicion
spaces are collapsing and the black tide comes.
In the miserliness of the silence without itself and life,
we're the last prisoners of the beginning
under the stone which has our name.
Comments
Post a Comment