Dan Enache Poet Free verse

The window opens again onto a darkness alive, breathing like a lung

The window opens again onto a darkness alive, breathing like a lung,
and our dead are alive, wearing burial shrouds of old rags and amber bones.
Each one hides a snake in their chest, at the great silent confrontation of shadows,
opportune for eternity, like guests who never leave the doorway.

For their commemoration in a den with walls of ancient prayer,
for their last and white confession, like snow that burns without fire,
for the technical use of contemplation, a ritual without priest or word —
(and we will all be earth and rot, but a rot that still dreams).

They would deserve a title of nobility in these hard and obscure times,
of the silent return toward twilight, toward the burning edge of evening,
and let them lead us, silent as blind priests, toward eternity,
carrying us on their shoulders like unborn infants still made of light.

When the eagle begins its retreat toward the stars, in the memorable second
when the sun and moon reunite in their liquid, silver form,
they continue their subtle drift toward a terrain of heresy, in the middle of the spiral,
the unrivaled lunar flow, with its pleasant earthly grounding of salt and dew.

Only hands can still pass over the rainbow like blind birds,
and roots grow upon our tongues, thin and bitter as an unspoken secret,
their nourishment is water and fire, the two mouths of the same evening,
and let them lead us, silent, onward, toward eternity without a name.

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