Carved
And this is it: the
perfect feeling of the in-betweens: to float in the gentle
ignorance of the spring days, blessed.
Was not this the peak
we wanted to attain? A perceived happiness made of rags. If the
surface is luminous enough, if the wind lets us be in our house of
cards
then
why to question, why to
dig further, why to scratch the reflex of the mirror? Let it be:
our house of cards and
the smooth surface of the lake -who wants to eat from its heart of ice anyway, my dear?
/our traps and truces,
the meltdown of promises, the scent of something dark coming from
behind the mirrors are whispers from dreams we do not talk about but
enclose in the chest of small dolls of wood instead; we take then the dolls and
bury them in the heart of the forest where no one can trace our fears
but the hunter who's far away behind Orion.
Because if we fall in
the depth of dark waters, nothing can stop it: not my words nor your
lies and no compasion will save us from be bashed out into the cold.
/The hunter is old
enough to know that and has no need of carving more pain in our flesh.
Let it be then:
let the naked tongue of
our silence crop us together. Let the violets' scent unfold the
neglect of death and betrayal. I'll bake bread under the stars and
you'll pour wine and milk to stay another season beside me. You
pretending you understand my language, me pretending I do care about
it meanwhile we eat from the black bread and drink the sour light,
blessed
in this gentle ignorance.
