Dan Enache Poet Free verse

The Child-Green Sun and Extinguished Lamp

The Child-Green Sun and Extinguished Lamp

The child burns in my chest like a green sun that pulses cosmically through my ribs,
and is silent like a moon with teeth of liquid honey dripping through the magic air,
time flows slowly through me a glass fish through the veins of smoke of blue evening,
through translucent arteries where memory bathes in cold melancholic mercury.

The father within me cries with forehead of stone sculpted in mountains of eternal forgetting,
he rocks his shadow like a blind bird that once flew through the gardens of childhood,
he calls me from a horn of amber and salt in a wet alphabet of sonorous sands,
in tongues of broken crystal echoing through the cathedral of my desolate empty soul.

I see myself growing a tree with roots in heaven floating like a psychedelic dream,
and every thought is a ladder toward me toward me lost in the infinite labyrinth,
a star falls into my palm like a black apple pulsing with light of dead velvet,
and I bite into silence—it tastes of departure of bitter ash and tears of silver.

The old man in the mirror is my sad child with Sunday eyes pale without any borders,
he plays on my knees with needles of light weaving invisible mantles from cosmic longing,
and sews in the air a song of winter a melody of ice melting into flames,
a hymn for all my ages dancing together in temples of translucent crystal light.

In a station of dreams with sick clocks ticking in tongues of amber butterflies,
I wait for day to come in a dress of green-phosphorescent algae woven from hope,
and my train breathes slowly like a wound on rails of liquid silver flowing slow,
through interior forests where trees cry tears of jade for what I used to be.

Then I become thin like the thread of song that binds the earth to the magic heavens,
and I pass through memories like through violet waters where I swim with melted wax wings,
God caresses me with gloves of ash and tells me "you are path" in silence deep,
and the path fears its destination the ending that comes on feet of cosmic smoke.

I close the eyelid of the world in it grows a hallucinating lily with perfume of living tale,
and in the lily hides an infant with hair of night whispering warmly magic on my heart,
who tells me "don't end don't disappear into the cosmic darkness of eternal forgetting",
but remain as eternal flame that burns in the temple of hearts that loved you ever.

And yet within me a lamp goes out melancholy flows like cold milk through my veins,
but the child laughs—a burnt bell—with voice of amber that refuses to be silent forever,
and makes from death a warmer snow a crystal covering that caresses the skin gently,
transforming the ending into magic beginning in the perpetual circle of immortal life.

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