The Last Version of the Word
The word is empty,
So is my soul,
A Godless Jesus forgotten by sins n’ sanctity,
A crime avoided by cruelty’s buds
And blood’s closed springs,
Or just a void section of life.
The word wanted to be a leaf,
Then a thunder,
Once thought its name was „pain”,
Other times „blue”, „question” or „poem”,
But all of those have already had other bodies,
So the word is alone,
Like a black star on night’s sky,
Like me now.
The word is a wingless fly
Or a rayless sun drowned into dark
And it finds a bottle on the bottom of time,
With a message inside:
„You are Nothing„.
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text apărut în Reflections #2/2003 şi Ultimate Hallucination #13
al doilea (şi posibil ultimul) poem în engleză pe care-l postez pe acest blog