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Dariusz Klimczak.

Here the dust speaks out.
It descends upon the world
as deposit of the useless,
as a house crumbling down for a mere touch,
scattering the memory of its foundations.
Mills of boredom revolve the blades
of days and nights,
creaking and smashing the motes of a silence
desecrated by abjurations.
All falls by its weight,
placed to cover the proscribed invective
of these bodies exposed
to the dereliction of its own senescence.
Behind the signs of its path every door falls silent,
the rattles of life are quieted,
the sound of decay hatches,
stealthy and patient,
deposed in its own abandonment.
Mites of time,
particles of weariness,
enzymes of dreams downloaded one bit per second,
the dust whispers,
the dust stills,
and into the dark flour of its breathe
it kneads a language
old as a bitter wine
to make a toast for a last journey detained forever.