Unheard Speech To a Puddle, Long Time Ago

1 Puddle, swallow me in your archaic and gracious depths. I’ve been roaming through my city and its veins with no oceanic nor dry eyes to salute to, with no raw rapid river nor traffic sign to guide me. 2 Their gods are angry at me, puddle; they now know -and not before- I have mocked their rituals and broken their now transparent and blood-ebon core. They´re angry at me, puddle. 3 Release me from my self-put chains Release me from these empty bonds of mine, from this modern and boring-to-watch Greek tragedy. Save me, puddle; sing to my haze under the red coldness of the moon and to my solitude under the fire on the petrified willow. 4 I often walk through destroyed statues, with flesh and vines touching the new light, parasites of the old shadow upon them. I stare, and the copper-covered statue blinds me with the reflection of the wicked sun through the tortuous morning mist. 5 There are only my dreams in the mist, and my silhouette dressed as a man. 6 Please puddle, let my feet touch gently your first drops, and so on until my figure is wet in the ocean and my neck is hanged from the sky. I’ll be able to swim towards the calm shore, and rest in that land, in the half-wet half-dry sand, in a pain-free limbo. Time will pass by, and I will have forgotten my human cover. But just after my eyes clarify, I will be forced to leave the snow that had surrounded me, and I will have to return to my core and to the chaos I lived in. And even if chaos won’t let me do it, I will keep trying to kiss it.