Dan Enache | + Follow Poet |
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I twist a cross in my palm, a compass of hidden silences

I twist a cross in my palm, a compass of hidden silences,
Old watchmaker keys creak in the bone of the seconds,
Graves gently open, the air smells of raw moon,
And I see the place of my deeds, like a stained glass window in blood.
I am blind with heavy dreams, huts of smoke in my pupils,
Nights look at me inside out, with stars blinking in vain,
On my screwed-in sky, an abyss screw in my temples,
Inside me, emptiness laughs, inside me, coldness buds.
I mock myself in a carnival of ashes,
I drink my breath on frames, the film of a cry,
Between two tired mirrors, time gnaws its nails,
And says: be the passerby who counts his steps in sleep.
Perhaps I become immortal, only half-lit,
A semicircle of the future, delayed in orbit,
A clay bread kneads the dry rocks from ribs,
And my hair stands on end, an antenna to cosmic whispers.
I am not going to Heaven, I tell myself, not today, nor tomorrow of wax,
Screams from behind the scenes want to impose light on me,
I flow through darkness like through a river of salt,
With a skin boat tied to a mute bird.
The moon bites into me, a crunchy crust of truth,
A bite that gives energies of blue lightning,
In the nape grows fear of fear, a blind man with a cane,
And I slowly feel my life, like a map of waves.
I twist the cross again, in the exact direction of hope,
And I hear in its axis a cry learning to sing,
When my body is a lock, the soul becomes the key,
Opens the final frame: a door to my own name.
Under the plaster of the hour, a heart beats in stone,
A clock removes its teeth and utters an oath,
To leave on my tongue the ashes and honey of silence,
To pass among stars like through the snow within me.
God gave me from my mother a deep fear,
A cup pouring darkness into acacia flowers,
And yet, from it, I drink slowly, until I feel it becomes
A sticky light at the tips of thoughts.
I twist the cross once more, until time grows weary,
And falls like a sleepy bird on my shoulder,
Then I lay my head in the lap of the clay night,
And wait for my wings to grow, equal with the silence.

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