End of Writing
The end of writing
I´m not a poet no more
have crossed the field of roses
in front of me a dark forest where blackened leaves
have yet to fall.
The forest is endless the hope is to find a tarn bottomless
and mysterious and nymphs are calling my name and made
or me a bed of rosebuds, but not under Damocles sword
the spirits of my life have a baroque sense of humour.
I have thrown away my pen,
no more scribbling on a piece of paper or bank statement
if I write it will be with a stick on a beach at the edge of the sea
and see as the ripples erase what I wrote something about
a dream in the land of forgetfulness.
Since my birth there have been endless wars, do dictators
sprout from the earth like cabbage, but to this forest
they will not dare to tread, less they will be petrified forever
lost in the dark flora.
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