Thursday, October 19, 2006

The trees are dark ruins of temples,seeking excuses to tremblesince who knows when–their roofs are cracked,their doors lost to ancient winds.And the sky is a priest,saffrom marks on his forehead,ashes smeared on his body.He sits by the temples, worn to a shadow, not looking up.
Some terrible magician, hideen behind curtains,has hypnotized Timeso this evening is a netin which the twilight is caught.Now darkness will never come–and there will never be morning.
The sky waits for this spell to be broken,for history to tear itself from this net,for Silence to break its chainsso that a symphony of conch shellsmay wake up to the statuesand a beautiful, dark goddess,her anklets echoing, may unveil herself.

I longed for your lips, dreamed of their roses:I was hanged from the dry branch of the scaffold.I wanted to touch your hands, their silver light:I was murdered in the half-light of dim lanes.
And there where you were crucified,so far away from my words,you still were beautiful:color kept clinging to your lips–rapture was still vivid in your hair–light remained silvering in your hands.
When the night of cruelty merged with the roads you had taked,I came as far as my feet could bring me,on my lips the phrase of a song,my heart lit up only by sorrow.This sorrow was my testimony to your beauty–Look ! I remained a witness till the end,I who was killed in the darkest lanes.
It’s true– that not to reach you was fate–but who’ll deny that to love youwas entirely in my hands?So why complain if these matters of desirebrought me inevitably to the execution grounds?
Why complain? Holding up our sorrows as banners,new lovers will emergefrom the lanes where we were killedand embark, in caravans, on those highways of desire.It’s because of them that we shortened the distances of sorrow,it’s because of them that we went out to make the world our own,we who were murdered in the darkest lanes.