Wind gusts
They gallop with the Virgin Mary's horses.
Thought first and thought last
They spring from the ellipsis
Why always the material of memory
It is made of stone and cloud
Like the incredible days of the swallows.
A square root of ancient night
Escaping from deep love
And scattered poems
Who do not ask for justification
But to balance eternally
With their cool rhymes
Within the kingdom of verbs.
We curl up against ugliness
As victims of the silent ones.
A bitter smile-
And the cat curls up awkwardly too
At the feet of the mistress.
Dorothea, Euthylla, Isolde
Where they all smell together
Something that precedes in the books
And something else that follows
In the porcelain with the tea
-The illusory reflection of nothing-
And it is Lucian's October
October of Longinus
With countless eyes
And spells to bind those behind
On the unknown side of mortium.
photo by Andhoj, https://pixabay.com
