"I hope there's a bed of winter when i find myself home
softly dressed in veils of white
pillows so tender i'd wonder if my head has ever touched
something so pure
and for a blanket i'd have the night
the inherent poetry of the penumbral sky
to wash over my sleepy body
already failing to digest reality
slowly swallowed away by the visceral lips of a dream"
Sleeping is more than a necessity to the saint
it is a ritual
Mind and body aligned into the task of slipping away
to where the night is not to be feared but adored
to where the dawn awakens the many with its light that does not burn
To where the saint is no saint but a small beast
not an object of adoration
but a creature of the forest - the adorer, the one who worships the hallowed earth.
a saint learns he's place
there he does
A saint knows he came from where he's the so called holy
but he knows that of holy only his adoration truly counts
And in that adoration he prays he'll be made divine
he rejoices in the beauty of faith
he knows now the beast is hallow
he entered the earth 7 feet below where he used to crawl
he bled 7 feet below where he used to sin
He's reformed in what he calls divinity
the saint never went home so the beast stayed
a bed of winter made of crimson
but
The blood of a saint is hardly blood
[wine and offering to the earth]
whose hands wove his prayer
into the tender skeleton of reality
binding him to he's fresh corpse
The beast runs free in the forest
now
it does
It knows no hypocrisy
it knows only of feast,
and now sleeping is only a necessity
for rituals he knows nothing of
He should've known every saint eventually is met halfway into the road of martyrdom, even if a hollow one.
But the beast doesn't know,
the beast is at peace
it just ate, and for the beast it has been
a quiet, peaceful evening
The beast falls asleep, the beast isn't met with a bed of winter
it's too cold
the beast lies and listens to the sound of
dawn approaching
Soon there will be a hunt.
YOU ARE READING
Tecelã de Sonhos - Poesia D'água
PoetryMyths, Dreams and Poetry. port/eng it is a hymn as much as it is an obsession - but isn't it holy? - Vim d'uma morosa manhã de abril, cresci como coruja cantante na copa do pau-brasil, tornei-me como bruma e desfiz-me...
