My solitude weaves the paths of the night that unfolds beneath my footsteps
My solitude weaves the paths of the night that unfolds beneath my footsteps,
And when my eyelashes fall heavy - a puppetry of worlds dims in their blindness.
In the frown of my eyebrows,
The Moon transforms into a sidereal onion suspended above the crests of the world.
I gather universes in my pockets, bring in my palm the dimming of houses and the gentle descent of trees,
I withdraw and control their fates; I watch with royal indolence as my tiny throngs of people,
Laughing, loving, shivering from wine,
Ignore that I, in childhood boredom, could send them into nonexistence with a single blink of an eyelid.
When I dress in the robe of affection,
I clothe the grasses in festive green,
Wrap the sky in azure silk and sprinkle the sun with golden pollen;
But in my sour whims, I weave my soul as a god
With decrees of vanity on my lips to conquer the hues and darken the corollas in black.
Oh, you, apparition that believes yourself alive, the inflamed silk beside me,
You struggle to escape from the tangle of my thoughts,
You swear that your heartbeat of love proves your link to the world,
But do not forget that in the whirl of this carnival of delirium,
All your radiance, every glint of genius, is a sarabande, my capricious gift to you.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
|