49 minutes ago
that memory is a fragrant window
opening on ripe cornfields?
that our bodies grow cold
as light grows dim there?
that trees have ceased to follow
that we must conceal
from lilies and rabbits
the news of the death of love?
that now noons will be
heavy like a drunkard’s head?
that evenings will have sick hearts
like a lover’s whispered songs?
who said that we are running barefoot
over red hot iron
with a fistful of childhood rain?
that we will, at the end,
hand over our keys
to the same rain?
who said that men once dead grow younger
and then they enter another time?
that all the birds that vanished
at sunrise will return
when the world ends?
that we would understand everything
with no one saying anything,
but will still not share
anything with anyone?