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Pablo Picasso. “Three dancers”.

So here I sit day after day
waiting for the words to leave their message,
a sign, a shadow,
a trace of cloud or water or wind,
moaning wakefulness unattainable among the sleep
and its sleeplessness.
I climb the abysm of my soul
as a sleepwalker in the mist of the unaltered
sign upon this white and desert plain,
bereft of everything what could break
through faced with the gale of indolence.
Is something still left beyond the waiting
spreading out behind this ocean of pixels
and bits streaming across a timeless night?
Who shall dwell its shores?
Where shall run aground the stray messages
in their hopeless wreck?
Nothing is certain. Everything is unforeseeable.
Empty of sounds this voice sinks
into the twilight of a silence as unutterable
as death.
Only remain some figures,
their hollow shapes dancing under fleeting
eyes collecting their threads
and weaving them into slight songs,
as the breeze of an autumn
swirling dying, dried leaves.