Dan Enache Poet Free verse

The Breath Before the World

The Breath Before the World

I walk backward on a bridge woven from breaths of cold fog,
and shake my self from my shoulders like down from a dead swan,
with every step more smoke, more air, more nameless,
until the sole of my foot feels only a music of warm steam,
and the door I was searching for was only a sigh of the wind.

Dreams are dandelions of smoke blown from desire's pyre,
which I feed with eyelashes like a lamp in the depths,
and desire is a seagull of embers with wings of ash
that flies over seas of silence, crying out in the moon's language,
and at dawn returns to my chest, a dove of warm cinders.

I evaporate slowly like a song left without a mouth,
and the void receives me in its bodiless palms,
where not even the echo remembers whose voice it was,
I remain alone, from before the world's first spark,
bare as a feather fallen from a bird that never learned to fly.

Maybe the dream is a soap bubble blown into another dream,
and I, a flake of light on its rainbow eyelid,
slip from dream to dream like a little bell carried by the wind,
among doors that open into other doors, ever softer,
and the self, a firefly, glows only by forgetting that it burns.

Beyond the last dream there is neither air nor void,
only a rustle, the wing of an angel not yet born,
the silence from before the letter, when the name was sleeping,
and the one who sleeps, the one dreamed, the one awakened are a single dew,
a stillness in which everything gently rises toward the first light.

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