On the remember* of the other shore, a mountain…
Alive and well like the intentions of a sparrow,
condemned to never know the north of south…
So wide, so tall, so barren;
unmoved as the existence, stern…
refusing any shipwrecked’s prayer,
for just a little bit of space…
A cave on high dwells empty,
as the perspectives of its former heart…
(What has become of thee, existence?
Where dwells thy spirit, soul?
Where is thy substance?
Why are thy purses empty, why?)
It’s back-tide, shore,
so time is coming,
to say the same
*conscious and deliberate reforging of a verb into (so far…) a non-existent noun…
No one’s afraid anymore
of fragile girls with dragons
tattooed anywhere in between
the top of their heads
and the long, old train which
left the day innocence
were last seen in their tears…
When dies, innocence leaves a hollow scar,
in which hope lays before the final door slam,
It lays there petrified, deep beneath pages
of runaway gospels.
On the day when all guardian angels
will cover away the sight of dying children,
a mighty flaming sword shall fall…
That day, the fragile girls shall return.
With their dragons.
I finally understood
my absolute incapacity
to understand life…
I have no idea what is it,
where does it come from,
what is it made of…
Hansel and Gretel once told me,
that life as we know it,
comes from deep forests;
but you can’t trust ’em:
I’ve been told they’re just
pathetic PR agents of
Willy Wonka’s ancestors…
And there’s Adam and Eve…
At least remove the M & S tags
from your Oxfam rags…
Cousteau & Co. suggested we crawled
out of oceans:
What about Sponge Bob and Patrick, huh?
precisely at midnight,
I’ll close my left eye,
pretending that darkness,
is just the brighter side