Tags
Horacio Lobos Luna, literature, lobosluna, lyric, poem, poetry
Mars-1 – “Mental and Material Realms”.
I opened the dreams which were given to me
as swollen primrose buds,
and I wiped away the dew drops settled
by the sleepless night, longer than a whole lifetime.
I found the memory in the quivering of my hands,
throbbing terrified by the oblivion where so many
dreams were sunk in this unforeseeable shipwreck.
But here I am,
thirsty for hugs, hungry for fires
at the ashes that were left
after the injustice and horror of the human.
And I know,
the glass of triumph can become
thick chains forged in hope,
poured out in the waiting of a bitter wine.
Yet, here I am yet,
listening to the whisper of a gone time
nesting once more among the foliage of a verb.
Or could it be that pain and fear squeezed
the last supplies before the resounding twilight,
and they awaken laughing echoes still blaring
in some place, unkempt and undimmed.
Or could it be that there are no mysteries,
that fire reaches out everything
despite the cold hoar frost enduring
after the rust of time.
A throbbing pulse in the dark tangle,
an invisible thread tied to some yearning,
as indecipherable traces of an image
blurred on a shelled and aged
surface.
On it lived through the pale shadow of flowers,
of surrendered laurels, of winged smiles,
when the indolent woodworm of dismay
did not open its crevasses nor defeated their songs yet.
They have shuddered under the ancient cloak
of fights fading the horizon
of so many promises trampled by the rhetoric
and utopias open as sores.
They loom up in crystalline longings on this tomb
darkened by bones without memory already,
to sprout in a brief outbreak
that would wish become a fulfillment
at the end of an endless march.
Searing Words 