The night bewitched me with its kind
warm breasts, scented in silences
piercing as barks and distant laments.
It invited me to the suicidal flight condemned
by the vital inertia sinking into the magma
of dreams.
What devastating anemia dilutes the cracked
veins of this valley stretched out under uncountable
flickering pupils of a moonless darkness?
What hidden anathema dozes in the wrinkled skin
of its paths?
Maybe someday it will put the word
as a burning flower on my mouth again,
radiant of relentless suns and dense
loneliness fermenting into deep ravines
as volcanic sores.
The only thing left for this moment is the unspeakable
desire of itself,
devouring itself irredeemably with the suffocating
gasp of a dying fish
clinging to the warmness of a dark rock.
Where do you go Night without moon,
without memories, without forms nor contours
that appease your tremors
of passions stinking
of ghosts from so many lips
beyond the hour of sterile feast?
In this valley, in the astral and millenary night
surrounding life and death with the apathy
of a goddess gleaming of wonders,
somebody rummages the insidious
membrane of the sidereal aphonia
to burnish a pray
as furious metal against the fate
of all sea of time.
And sleeps, and quietens down,
weaving a hope
with the shreds of some atom stuck
into the nothingness.
