FROM THE HOURGLASS OF FORGETTING
FROM THE HOURGLASS OF FORGETTING
From the shattered hourglass of the moment, I tumbled into forgetting,
like an echo crushed beneath its own song, bitter and unrelenting,
I drew across my face a hollow mask, born of breaking,
through the monumental dust of dreams, toward an unmaking.
I sank into the dry sea of silent eyes,
chained to the shadow of my own beast, lost and crucified,
a hope inside your storm — an illusory, empty horizon —
with the net of betrayal on my shoulders, my faith a blind corolla, frozen.
When I tear myself from the past the way clay leaves a palm,
struck low and cowardly, with a deafening cry — a journey, a psalm —
I will have crushed you, like clay that forgets it was once stone,
and in my silence — a traveler who burns, and turns toward home alone.
I run, I hide my eyes beneath moons that never circle back,
among your dark dreams — miracles with wings along a crumbling track,
flight to waste — a broken wing! — like the flower that lies,
that it will bloom again beneath a sky of burning ash and cries.
Melancholic thoughts — unacceptable, belonging to my living —
indecipherable lines, written with fingernails on stars, unforgiving,
I lose myself, always, in your strange waiting, like a witness
to my own night — the sentence of a silent counter's business.
And the sand from the shattered hourglass no longer knows how to fall,
each second — a mute cry in a mouth of jade, a hall,
while you remain a wound that doesn't know how to be a wound,
I — an echo searching for its source, from dawn to dusk, untuned.
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