The Sacred Combustion of the Moment
The Sacred Combustion of the Moment
A storm of blood ignites our marrow in the silence of the heavy night,
It strikes our chest like a blind lightning bolt that asks no leave, no pardon,
We no longer turn our faces toward the scattered bones of rebel days,
We throw ourselves naked into the flames, as into some ancient, holy feast.
It's a love that tears down old temples and walls without a border,
That tramples underfoot deaf conventions, laws of ice, cold patterns,
When our whole body screams "stop" with its very last breath,
We build from our own chaos a citadel that defies both time and forgetting.
We pay no mind to the world's gossip, cold shadows, petty miseries,
To the judging eyes from houses without soul, without dreams,
We live at the white-hot temperature of a single moment, burned to the forehead,
That feels to us like an entire ocean in waves barely promised.
Stone statues collapse into dust, laws and ancient canons,
Beneath our scorched footsteps that leave embers on the earth,
We are only us, a flame flowing through our veins like a river of eons,
That learned long ago to carry in its palms the breath of the sacred wind.
All that remains is this pure current, electric, magic, and wild,
A windstorm in which the whole world slowly, silently unravels,
A mad dream, hallucinatory, and, in its depths, blessed,
That has no time for gentle tenderness, only for fire that burns, mute.
And maybe tomorrow, from these ashes, someone will speak of a fire,
That I burned brighter than a fallen star at the height of summer, unafraid,
But today we live in the raw pulse of one single, repeated siege,
Loving each other madly, until everything, everything turns to flame.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment