miercuri, 23 decembrie 2015

The World Buries the Dead


Carved ghosts above the charred scaffold
that we eagerly built with our bone-hard belief
in who and how and why and what we sincerely loved,
that day, the world celebrated a new breath of life.

Unexpected it plummeted upon our shoulders,
the gigantic weight of this whirlpool of a nightmare
-our collective tragedy, the dawning of deaths to come.
The world glimpses the incoming death.

There are ghosts there, uneasily scouring their ashes,
searching for a last caress, the embrace of comforting slumber
searching for love in between our walls of putrid rattle.
The world carries the dead.

Behold the dreaded vultures soar above
in wide circles that wounded the sky and made it fall dead,
behold them ravage those who agonized before us.
The world carries the dead.

Hyenas lurk under every shadow, poisoned by fever,
their eyes bleeding, shredded by the abrasive desert sand
of this urban desert, the god they rose on dry stone.
The world buries the dead.

Watching, laughing, hideously grinning, the beasts
feed on the black hole that grows in us
-the all-devouring void left behind by those departed-
as the world buries the dead.

Like unfettered beasts, golden clad clerics
suck and devour tears fallen on ash and charred bones,
while planting the seeds that bear fruits of my nihilism.
The world buries the dead.

There is a great mass of bones, tonnes of bones
on which a palace stands crumbling in the growing tide
that brings deliverance on scarred lands.
The world buries the dead.

There is a tremendous roar, a yell to drown their screams
and walls crumble, and eyelids fall one onto the other
denying the darkness, too afraid of the light it might shed
when the world buries the dead.

Unto nothingness, some erect themselves as saviors
destined to bleed under our eyes’ ruthless scourge
for what nothingness nourished will only return to nothingness
when the world buries the dead.

Here we stand, in tearful remembrance, broken and shivering
too frail to not let the rapacious predators feed on our grieving hearts,
too weak to crumble the statues they erect on our spines,
as the world buries the dead.

Our mournful laments echo in the empty halls
a reverberation, a wicked vibration of our vocal strings
to which crazed clowns dance as if ablaze.
The world mourns the buried dead.

This endless November rain falls on our heads and feet
washing the filth that’s been plaguing our hearts
and leaving us clean and cold before their open graves
as the world mourns the buried dead.

Alone they went, their souls carried to the shores of a stellar sea,
united we rise against their requiem, united we stand
until no greater storm comes, leaving us alone. To fall apart, again.
The world buried the dead.

Still, the tectonic plates smash against each other
and the sun burns, one day closer to its great cold demise,
and the rivers run and irrigate the plains and hills and mountains,
and the world carries the dead.