Night Poem V

The night brings its own openings,
its own fissures of chance,
to those initiated in its bittersweet fruits.
On a bridge strung from dark star to dark star,

youth blooms from the icy flow,
and I am thrust from my memories,
and I am shown the beginning of my life.
And trembling,

I am filled with the beauty of
what is to come,
and the immensity of my soul.
The galaxies full of sadness,

that until now waited,
embrace me like a comrade,
while the night sings in a riot of stones below.
And I am now the sensation

no one could describe,
and I am equipped for my life
with a blindfold of journeys,
and I wear a robe of mountains.

Advertisements

Savage Night (Owl Song)

89b025a966e39adff02af85ec7c73be7

Listen, that one voice
translating the night.
Suddenly, I too speak
from the owl’s dark mouth,
the way the night
speaks through holes
the trees bore into the stars,
those sky wounds.
A single voice, a lament of wings,
the lament that soars with dreams.
I had thought my life
like an impenetrable hour,
a warm stone held
in the palm of my silent heart,
until the owl came
to cry beyond my window,
that messenger,
crying the savage night.

First Star

First star,
open like an unreachable bud
in the still blue skin of the
evening.
Pale, silent, saying nothing,
yet somewhere once
a fierce energy,
a nebula of music,
which through the
immeasurable time
that it took islands, diamonds,
arthropods, tetrapods,
oceans to rise up and die,
through all this,
you reach us only now.
Still, you reveal nothing to us,
while we chew ourselves
into mouthfuls of
hate and love and fragrance.
Now and then, some of us flare up,
some, just now, petering out,
for we too
revolve around our own
dying sun.
You, slow burning, linger long
until red death comes.
Do you envy us,
our short and brittle fuse,
the heat of our precocious days,
our exquisite elaboration
on a theme of life,
our insatiate coming and going,
while you only remain?