In the desolate temple of the soul, flesh weaves over bone a silent epitaph
In the desolate temple of the soul, flesh weaves over bone a silent epitaph,
Spirits lock thought within the ark of thought, and sometimes, a divine spark,
And women in furies pour vessels into fragments of petrified walls,
While men submerge self in the deluge of the endless bitter draught,
No one unravels another's enigma—and yet we wander, undeterred in our search,
A feast of pain among the shroud of other silent dreams.
Flesh beside bone, and flesh calling for more than earthly caresses.
There’s not a sliver of luck to emerge,
We are prisoners of the same unanimous fatality.
No one ever rediscovers that lost half.
The refuges of cities gorge on their refuse,
And windows of pain become filled,
Madhouses come alive,
Hospitals spread their beds,
And cemeteries weep for the dead.
And yet nothing else fills the voids.
On this unanointed altar of the body cloaking the skeleton,
Minds wrap their writhings in flesh paper,
And now and then, a wisp of soul persists,
Queens shatter the jugs of pretentious pledged barriers,
Thirsty men sink their being into seas of deceitful wine,
And no heart finds its sunset in another's dawn,
Despite the journey, we lay amongst the pale napkins of other's dreams.
Carnal tissue embracing the bone—and the tissue chasing after more than dusty sensuality.
Not a thread of hope becomes visible in this stupor,
We are captives in one piercing prescription of destiny.
No soul ever uncovers that forever misplaced love.
The city's debris open their nostrils to plenty,
And the material world perfects its imprint,
Asylums echo with a chorus of commotion,
Hospitals interlace sufferings,
And cemeteries crowd their silence.
No other space finds a cure to fill the vast emptiness.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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