The moon is a candelabrum.
Its candle, this argent shadow
of the sun..
My pupils quest for their own light,
falling in their own hole,
and in this plunge they fear
the infinite lake of their tears
which can't efface the plate,
almost-light,
not even erradicate
the being of the night
while everything I see
shows only the back to the sun...
The moon is a candelabrum...
If its candles were just candles,
I probably would explode it
burning their wicks.
It would be
the most irreducible form
of my pray,
the expanded form
of my miracle...
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário