The last poet

I am the last poet of the lands of Antares.

For so many generations ,longing for the end

that haunts my soul .

I'm writing to the children 

I didn't invite to weading feast ,

waiting in the womb of the sphere

or asleep in the maze ...

I bid farewell to the oriental mornings 

awakening at sunset and balancing

on an unstable galactic carpet .

Painter of weather climates ,

traveler in these braziers of eternal ice.

Stranger exiled in the spicy perfume

of a summer night ,

plucked from the crimson 

of a cloudy death ...

 Solitary  walker ,

trapped in a bubble of sideral despair ,

born at the source of scripture 

in the haze of inspired ...

This demented rounds of atoms 

lost in the mirror of memories...

 Does nothingness wearing 

the mask of the legions ?

Crowds laugh in the book of illusions...

 I'm just this wanderer 

in the mirage of the moment ,

molecular hologram ,

swept by solar winds .

  In the long red plain of Antares,

masters teach me the sacred of eternity...