Oh, love, why do we argue when your pious words are fleeting clouds
Oh, love, why do we argue when your pious words are fleeting clouds,
I am tired of all your prayers floating unanswered,
and of the dead who refuse to listen, buried in deep forgetfulness,
leave them be, take your step out of the cemetery of shadows,
they are busy with their silent eternity, sculpted in time.
It was always someone’s fault: the thin-lipped preacher,
who never came, leaving only the echo of days gone by,
I hid in the kitchen, under the rag bag like under a veil of forgetfulness,
I refuse to remember the dead, and the dead are bored with our memories.
But you—go ahead, descend back into the cemetery of extinguished dreams,
lie down where you imagine their faces are sculpted in darkness,
speak to your old bad dreams, dance with the ghosts of the past,
while I remain here, a prisoner of the silence that separates and binds us.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
|