by Dorina Brândusa Landén
From the height of the white dome
silver bells ring bilingual
echoing so far out of town
as if would ask the young leaves of the trees
and the people who wear
silk masks on their faces
about the riders of death who brought
like concentric circles on water
the message of the ruins in our century.
One steps on its own shadow
other on wine sleeping for a thousand years
getting drunk
trees are changing their barks
their epidermis is looking for friends.
False joys false calculations
will fill weeks of silence.
As if someone multiply us
with zero absolute
existence means nothing
but the fall of seconds.
It's noon.
Like boats in a swamp
the words the shadows disappear
people
lose their self
only deaf-mute gestures remain
and a beetle
caught in a bit of resin.
Last updated May 25, 2014