World of words
I
It was at dawn, one day in May;
dark birds in the low light
crossed wing-beating
in the breath of a new day.
You counted the precious moments,
when nothing remained.
Shadows around were erasing all.
Cleared and without light
your heart was still beating,
that moment at dusk,
when nothing remained.
The river in yesterdays shadow. Wind.
Your hair suddenly became paler
and your eyes stale with regret.
Let me rest here, by the tall grasses,
where small birds flutter
scattered by light.
They flew on a day in May,
exactly like this one. Were flying blindly to the edge
across a vermilion sky, towards the misty river.
Everything was aglow.
II
Nothing remained of those words
I said, I withheld and pronounced.
Words of minute thickness,
warm as pigeon nests.
Words of colour,
all left for errand frozen shadow worlds.
All those words.
That tree or that shape,
that river, that country, that May.
That blushing morning sky.
That body I loved. That dark
endless passion.
All those words. Love and boredom,
the rigor of living next to nothing, burning
like torches, that illuminate
the desolate void,
like an untamed flame
moving at night,
like you, like me, like us.
Words and words and words.
Tiny, beautiful stars
that were already tiny worlds.
So dear,
only words.
III
You listened and loved the words,
their small universe of sound,
their most beautiful madness.
Tender words like sweet monsters
that made you feel alive, and even now
you’re grateful.
Some were beautiful
and others were cruel,
but not less beautiful.
Some were atrocious,
others sad, none of them indifferent.
You so loved them all,
the heartwarming ones,
sweet as perfume,
those bowing like grasses in the wind,
others terrified by dusk,
or the naked ones, stiff with cold,
all were so much beloved.
Beloved until the end of a life
the mountains and the valleys, the muddy tears cried, the dark fog.
Everything was worthwhile, even
if it were only words,
where all was possible,
whether listened to or not.
It did not matter, if it ached,
next to your flesh.