AUTUMN RETURNS A day in mourning falls from the bells like a trembling cloth of vague life, it’s a color, a dream of cherries sunk into the earth, a tail of smoke that arrives without rest to change the color of the water and the kisses. I don’t know if you understand me: When night approaches from the heights, when the solitary poet at the window hears the steed of autumn running and the leaves of trampled fear rustling in his arteries, there is something over the sky, like the tongue of thick oxen something in the doubt of the sky and the atmosphere. Things return to their place: the indispensable lawyer, hands, oil, the bottles, all the signs of life: beds, above all, are full of a bloody liquid, people deposit their confidences in sordid ears, assassins descend stairs, but it’s not that, it’s the old gallop, the horse of old autumn who trembles and endures. The horse of old autumn has the red beard and the foam of fear covers his cheeks and the smell of vague buried rot. Everyday an ashen color descends from the sky which the doves must spread over the earth: Time, which has slept long years inside the bells, everything, lthe old suits all bitten, the women who see the snow coming, the black poppies that no one can contemplate without dying, everything falls to these hands I raise in the midst of the rain.
Posted on: Sat, 27 Sep 2014 01:25:38 +0000
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