hand spends the night wind, as a rough wall
stops, and as a body
implements blocks
ashen, gray, silent, brings news
bitter
tiles a deep red, almost death. Palpa
the hard heart of the night, the rods bitter
against your skin, balconies
vindictive and sharp shadow.
vulnerable to hack your abdomen,
in the white mass in your chest,
and see how a few days
alcohol were naive and sweet under the April sun
have become a terrible god, a force challenging
against what the finger stroked
that makes you an irrational being,
and pushes you to climb beautiful mountains
where short, crazy, body
of what you feared.
peace in your eyes is
the exodus of everything you loved,
and back of this goodness
hits you face with its high wall.
going to lose
silence, and the word
,
which was previously offered as a gift today is a beast
elusive.
All leaves you,
abandon everything.
But sometimes, what you love again
shadow crosses the walled boundaries of the wind and as the face
beheaded at the hands of Agave,
turns to speak in a whisper
similar to the days when God sang in the ear.
Image 1: "Agave about to kill his son." Calyx krater APULA red-figure, 370-360 BC, Ferrara, National Museum, 20482.
Image 2: "Agave, sword in hand, carrying the head of Pentheus." Fragment of Athenian red-figure cup. 430-425 a. C. Rome, Mus. Naz. Etrusco di Villa Giulia, 2268.
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