Wednesday Afternoon

At times, I hold the ashen sky up with my bare hands.

At times, I venture out on the porch and listen to the conversations 

of strangers that are always in a rush.

At times, the humidity sucks me dry like a desert.

A thick damp curtain falls over me,

and for a moment I lose my breath

and my strength, my joy,

and my will to endure.

 

In this atmosphere, things are brought to my attention,

the silent screams rising from deep in the Earth,

the loud dust coughing on the wings of dried

beetles,

the light posts and street lamps standing like gloomy gallows,

the shadows beating their heads 

against the gray buildings.

 

I notice the moon half hanging, half buried in the blue ash,

A sunken tombstone,

a lioness hiding her face in the tall black grass,

a shield drowning in black purple blood.

My eyes gallop across this wasteland like two tired horses on the verge

of growing wings,

like two mad owls on their bloodthirsty flight,

like two blind angels entering heaven instinctually. 

I step between heaven and earth, wandering willingly the cycles

of life and death, 

the void grows out of me

and the night and I grow dark as one. 

 

Eventually, I ascend the humidity, 

breathing normally I return to the light,

to my porch,

to the noise of the birds

erupting from the sunset.

It is only natural, not even the dead can remain dead forever.