From the world submerged beneath the ground, in a maze
carved out from iron, cement and stone
where the spider of fear and boredom
spins out its threads along silent paths, and there is no escape
In death's labyrinth, where humans perish
longing for life
where sound disappears spinning as though the ages gasped
through you
You are here … What is it you sing to the graves?
What is it you say to the harsh darkness and the icy cold?
And what is it you confide to solitude?
You turn! In your eyes there is
something about the spring
about a skyline untouched by dreadful nothingness
about a gentle laughing place
washed by the dawn, watered by light alone
You are here in your stone prison, on trails
that twist, converge, and twist again
whose prisoner never returns,
dreaming of the world, of escape
from the brutal silence, from tired imagination
from a hoarse voice, from the grey footsteps
visions that wither and desiccate
like flowers, like a bunch of grapes after the harvest
dreaming of the world, of the sun that lights up
colors the earth, of the flower's innocent dance
Dreaming: expanses, horizons and songs
Laughing eyes that speak marvelous languages
Outstretched endless shores
Islands laden with perfumes and dew.
Strange cities, undulating with life,
Capitals of an awesome roar and echo
Features that trace strange encounters in the mind
Tears, sorrows, loud bursts of laughter,
Dreaming of the land where roots sink firm
and winds frolic
where night is a glad dream emboldened
by the rise of morning!
How many hours did you stand on a sad evening
Looking at the limitless sea?
What is it you say to waves which return
after colliding with green rocks
(the everlasting rocks … the meaningless rocks)
What is it you say to the birds that hover
over the water's flame? To the straw
that floats through it (perhaps it came from some deep
sprouting place,
and will end at some ancient hidden shore)
What is it you say to the white waving sail?
And to the wind that wanders with abandon
like children's joy?
What is it you say in your painful calm
to the sealed circular horizon, the beams of light?
Were you not once free of heart and vision?
Were you not once a child with a beautiful secret,
a child who did not judge others?
Did you not once hasten toward the sun and long for the moon?
Where did this devastation in your heart come from?
How did time fade leaving a colorless image
and where, human, do you hope to encounter
what you lost of your love?
carved out from iron, cement and stone
where the spider of fear and boredom
spins out its threads along silent paths, and there is no escape
In death's labyrinth, where humans perish
longing for life
where sound disappears spinning as though the ages gasped
through you
You are here … What is it you sing to the graves?
What is it you say to the harsh darkness and the icy cold?
And what is it you confide to solitude?
You turn! In your eyes there is
something about the spring
about a skyline untouched by dreadful nothingness
about a gentle laughing place
washed by the dawn, watered by light alone
You are here in your stone prison, on trails
that twist, converge, and twist again
whose prisoner never returns,
dreaming of the world, of escape
from the brutal silence, from tired imagination
from a hoarse voice, from the grey footsteps
visions that wither and desiccate
like flowers, like a bunch of grapes after the harvest
dreaming of the world, of the sun that lights up
colors the earth, of the flower's innocent dance
Dreaming: expanses, horizons and songs
Laughing eyes that speak marvelous languages
Outstretched endless shores
Islands laden with perfumes and dew.
Strange cities, undulating with life,
Capitals of an awesome roar and echo
Features that trace strange encounters in the mind
Tears, sorrows, loud bursts of laughter,
Dreaming of the land where roots sink firm
and winds frolic
where night is a glad dream emboldened
by the rise of morning!
How many hours did you stand on a sad evening
Looking at the limitless sea?
What is it you say to waves which return
after colliding with green rocks
(the everlasting rocks … the meaningless rocks)
What is it you say to the birds that hover
over the water's flame? To the straw
that floats through it (perhaps it came from some deep
sprouting place,
and will end at some ancient hidden shore)
What is it you say to the white waving sail?
And to the wind that wanders with abandon
like children's joy?
What is it you say in your painful calm
to the sealed circular horizon, the beams of light?
Were you not once free of heart and vision?
Were you not once a child with a beautiful secret,
a child who did not judge others?
Did you not once hasten toward the sun and long for the moon?
Where did this devastation in your heart come from?
How did time fade leaving a colorless image
and where, human, do you hope to encounter
what you lost of your love?