The Pier
On this pure blue night, now forsaken by wearying symphonies, I gaze at time. That train that descends through my wrists and slips down my thumbs. Vagrant time, in minuscule fragments,
is either what makes me or what I myself have knit in crimson-coloured hours, resigned to the sheer abandonment where they stretch themselves.
Slack. Bound. Weary.
With hands anchored somewhere in the desert of cities.
I whisper to it that I’m afraid. But that the heat of fear should be like sails raised beneath the warm Universe that repels us from chaos, from inertia, from the bitter subjugation that tastes like the price of truth.
And I ask it, between verses and reversals, that in these times of scarce passions and unbroken dawns, it may always speak to me with the proper tone of melancholy. That it may take me to witness the disproportionate growth of concrete where clouded rain settles in dull words. That it may lead me to the remote place where the bravery of forests renounces the selfish, pestilent grey — where the cradle of roses turned black can no longer be a tangled anchor far away.
No. I shall no longer be a short-sighted petal torn from longing and cast into the Earth’s exhausted pulse.
Why?
Because I threw everything into the silent abyss that dwells within me. And because I am tired. Tired of dawns without tides, of hollow, sealed journeys, slowly devoured by muddy fogs.
I am brutally tired of the reckless reality, of chimeric, ever-floating promises that near mornings would be carefully traced by the song of gulls in the South. Tired of the perpetual contamination of words, of impure syllables — diagonal and cadenced — that lodge in a chest undone with each sigh of dawn in tears of salt, not of sea.
The view is gentler on the far side of the pier, in the virtue of the village, where I shall no longer glimpse the moon’s aching without a place for nostalgia. A soundscape where I’ll be born not knowing hours, building myself solely in the forgetting of me at each escape.
And it is to the wind’s design, under the watchful light on the eaves of windows, in the embrace of the wave that bursts at the very moment the sun retreats into the horizon, that I cry the death of volatile days (so-called happy conformities) and invoke the slow return of thunderous mists, of suspended embraces in the limbo, of the discreet tremors of the caged erudite.
In a time of stillness, I call forth only — in a recessive stretch —the water’s corner at the edge of fear, where my eyes escape.
And where my own shadows are born.
