If tears don't run salty into the bowl of lentils of life, you don't know the seasoning of pain
If tears don't run salty into the bowl of lentils of life, you don't know the seasoning of pain,
It's just a breeze, a transient wind over your infinite fields of indifference.
When you weep, tasting of all things, satiated with the world's profound murmur,
You conceal an unknown yearning in your sob, and the salt crystallizes in the chambers of your heart.
A fog settles on empty tables, laden with silences and sighs,
An autumn uncontained in dishes, woven into the silvery sleep of drawers.
Each bread crumb—a solstice between the full day and the night that comes,
In every crack of dawn and dusk lives the undigested, jumping love.
If you've never swallowed the moonlight mixed in the porcelain chalice of fate,
You have not felt how heavens descend, trickling through veins the eternal flow.
A scent of wax burning bloody in candles, once vivid now drained,
Is that flame under which your dreams fry and the healing aches like an eternal cut.
If you’ve never rocked hope in the quarter of the night, when hunger cuts your breath,
You'll never understand how every goal of deceit sways in throngs under the dome of eternity.
And you may see in the falling star, a shimmering silver platter flung across the sky,
Not a token of luck, but a scorched piece of the universe refusing to be swallowed without a fight.
If you've never eaten with tears in your eyes, you'll never know what life is...
The one that cuts and runs, and settles like a canvas of cold upon the ground of longing.
Poems are prepared for you in frost and heat, to sip stoically, with the natural taste of torment,
And you thirst, not for water, but for the essence that rises from the chasm of crying, wildly enchanted.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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