Graveyard

On the bronze antique gate, embellished crosses and swords                                         Shine conspicuously in the faint sunrays,                                                                             As to subdue the obscurity of the immovable words                                                          
Sculpted on the tombs from behind enclosing cement walls.                                           No poetical stylus, no oracular tapers burned in the dark through                                
Consuming inspirations ignited in a pulsating hot-blooded heart.                               No. Just tender and detached obituaries, mostly from fortuitous tomes.                     In here the unique innuendo is of unperturbed skin, flesh, bones                                   And late dust,                                                                                                    
Incontrovertibly fed to oblivion and forgiveness.                                                              
The massacre of greedy roots is never discriminative here,                                           The red blossom and the juicy fruits only reflect                                                               The inexhaustible and loyal natural cycle:                                                                
Create. Then, tear.                                                                                                                     
The rarely traversed earthy or paved alleys are taciturn                                                 And icy as a night of December spent alone in a foreign rail station.                           The valiant stones reveal their naked smooth surfaces to erosion                               As often as they proffer their shades to candle wax, fumes                                             And rotten petals,                                                                                                    
Deposited alive and swooned by shaky hands                                                                   On calendar or individual significant dates.                                                                       In here the worms, microscopic or visible, are skivvy and meticulous.                         They bequeath their sacred duty of unmitigated effacement                                           Without repentance or skepticism.                                                                                       In this realm, the birds only dare to scream in their melodies                                       The refrained sobs of the underground effigies                                                                 Now shadowless, misanthropic and void.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s