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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Sometimes I like to stand at the edge of night and sing without words I am free and I can watch closely how the hour breaks apart into a thousand shards of glass, my bare soles touch the cold asphalt like the skin of an angel fallen from old maps, I had just finished reading a book about people who forget how to dream, and I went out into the street where the streetlamps burned like candles at the world's bedside, a silver-furred dog ran between the legs of a crowd asleep on the inside. Of course my pity had gone past every boundary my tired body knew, I walked barefoot among people who watched indifferently as the sky cracked in two, there were lights gone out and a great deal of silence buried in their pockets, I could no longer go back to the house with blind windows and carpets of ash, I walked, just as I was, in a nightshirt thin as a prayer, into the first lost garden along the way. The people passing by looked at me in wonder, as if before an ancient miracle, as though they had never before seen a man holding hands with a wandering moon, I was determined never to return to the city with hearts buried in concrete, I had grown used to this new silence, soft as the wing of a sleeping bird, the silver dog had started to laugh, to bark old songs and tell stories from other worlds. We sat down then on the cold ground, playing with blades of grass like violin strings, we reached the edge of the city, where the train tracks fade into fog and memory, beyond the field there was no one left to disturb our peace, only a forest and a green strip of sky, we took off our shirts heavy with doubt, we took off even the names weighing on us like stones, we ran through the grass, we climbed through the trees, and we flew, weightless, alongside their birds. We soon reached the green strip of sky, full of angels and nameless birds, morning had come, a morning so new that even the shadows didn't recognize it, the people left below, in their city of stone, began to laugh in wild bursts, my shirt floated around my neck like a scarf woven from abandoned dreams, and it surprised me greatly, because up there, in that light, I no longer knew what shame meant.
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