All this calm,
was not before the storm;
was the storm itself, tiring,
and a quiet walk of the uni meditation beings;
a dream takes the shape of a pointed twigs hillock,
and birds that dig graves in the nests, and ovulate tombstones.
The evening was not yet clear, nor sleep,
the head pain simulates a fly that pummels tirelessly the glass,
trying to enter the closed window:
“Nothing behind the window, but blind fantasies collide with shadows”
Both of us are illusion proving delusion, and this existence is certain closure,
windows shutting down with nostalgia.
Doors are filled with the wrinkles of faces that have passed through it, then gone, each door is a cold nightmare,
the locks turnover often has the same effect:
“Two wings or a stab.”
so it is,
knocking, in the metal gutters, drums of hordes of torrents.
combines itself to defeat the road mud,
while air releasing whistles of the last departure,
to a line of bare feet.
Drowsily moves, between the eyelids grass with a snake lightness,
while no clear sleep yet,
the light runs towards its house inside dreamy eyes, sparkling with disappointment.
Things are aching,
hissing of the entire loss of the moment that never been dated,
everything will be gone,
everything is being gone,
everything had gone, while no clear dusk yet,
and things are submerged in its dreary monarchy:
“Is not this a truly collective joy? “
The broom of the last collector of tales,
sweeps the yesterday’s crumbs off the sidewalks,
gathers the seeds of the sterile time,
plants them in waste drums,
to sprout an alga perfumed with obliviousness, whenever the sun blows out from the pores of the cosmos, again,
through that stupid rotation of “time”.
“Have you ever seen a shadow without a body?”
in cities, this extremely happens,
shadows walk alone, as a river of ink,
all the surrounding emptiness is their pages,
to write on them talismans that erased at the first unlighted crossroads,
erased by the craved darkness,
take their mass in a corner.
They walk at night,
walk without footsteps or progress,
our ghosts, the “outsiders” from the memory cemetery,
they make little noise,
undercovered within a nearby ceremony,
we glimpse them at the illusion page,
rippling gently such as circles in the lakes,
we lay on their hands with tranquillity,
bite our vigilance without them,
go on chatting about anything stupid, did with them once,
then fall asleep,
finally, fall asleep, without dreaming of tomorrow, “Tomorrow is a trap of fantasy”
we survive a little,
survive with a deserved death,
bury the fantasy inside it, and dream.