Saturday, June 9, 2012

When the moon will be gone

I am a little bird with wings not so deep
and I have no say but
I assume myself as your messiah, as the God,
your God who writes the time for the sun
and the moon.

I travel everyday to the moon, wakes
the sleeping ball with the piano tied on my back.
I play some cheap mix sometime and it changes
its bodily forms to my seduction, the other times
I compose destinies with my tiny fingers and it
watches me write.

What if I forget to go to him a day?
What shall it do without me?
I shall decompose into your feathers, it says
the ground for all decomposition,
all submergence into catacombs.

Fair enough, I squeak. And who wonders
with other letters of requests from other lives
on earth. No one.

I fly on my great escape.

No comments: