, , , , ,

John Dorish. “Black Cat”.

The scream of world resounds
into the fateful night
and I take off to rest
under the embrace of all what is waiting.
Silent omens creep
on the sidewalks and asphalt
of cities detained in the limbo
of a dream that have held their breath.
The thresholds are far horizons
willing to swallow the distance
as if there were no tomorrow.
And they stretch, and they quiet down,
enacting the edict of time.
Who will appease the beasts that prowl
the bleak cities?
Who will argue to the Sphinx its soliloquy
of indecipherable sophistry?
Beyond these shadows the seas keep
the messages that no one listen, that everyone speaks,
and swings into the foam the sweetness
of days that nobody deigned to save from the winter.
And yet, the erratic pulse of the world
still holds the promises and vows
we gave each other before being lost
into the pompous gloom of the little god
scornful of tiny mortals
with their eagerness of love and justice.
There they are yet,
the laps where the starving mouths nest,
the beds where the aphonia of the abandoned ones fades away,
the kisses that we discard into the delusional
There they are yet,
as pebbles forgotten among the weed
of so many years already gone,
there they are yet,
to be collected and submitted
as talismans recalling
the homecoming after the devourer routine
of so much word saved for another life,
for another death.