by SF

SOME divine moments in
fever of destiny, draw out
contrasts and aphorisms.
And they do insist.

A nostos of our dream shivers.
Wrapped in a song. At the first
turn, the song extinguishes, and…
Oh, yes.
Silence may provoke the world,
or Sorrow justice, but nostalgia of
the unknown had won us in our youth.
Immortality too, in a few joints.

And he, who has not wasted a
treasure in his youth may heal
that crack in the door.

As night falls, a woman’s tender
whisper. It could be a farewell
to an age gone by. There is no
haste. There are no wagons
unloading any pirates of
pleasure. No.

I recall my first verse. A child then.
Eros-stricken by the faraway lights
and elders who slept on armchairs.
I would then enter a landscape,
painted on the oldest of our walls.

-Autumn was eternal there.