domingo, 24 de febrero de 2013

Story of remoteness, 1. First Part.

First Part

 Coming home

René Magritte, Personal values

* * *

The lied city

Returning, coming back home, a budding scythe in my hands,
blindly walking along the shore without sand nor sea,
at the sharp edge of the abyss, in the creeping nocturnity,
and without love, without a peculiar weariness,
returning to the place from which everything proceeded. 
Dreaming of the full moon that completes itself,
the last song from a bird silenced for too long,
too much fear,
too many vocals dying in the nothingness with one whisper.
One man, a thousand roads.
And not thinking, disengaged from every reference to magma,
to produce a rising instinct in order to appease the shadows.
Too many men, too many roads,
there are just too many tiring days
relegated backwards in a stunning turn,
the horizons broken without conviction, without soul,
the cities broken through with my own shoulder and demolished
until lying lifeless over the sweet earth.

City is hell, as it is the moribund dream of the traveller
that comes back, falls upon, disgraces himself,
the empty conversations at a coffee bar covered with ashes,
the defoliated cigarettes like brief butterflies
that slowly putrefy and smell from the core.
The limpid form of what could ever be,
of what could have ever been
but now is just the symbol of reminiscence and therefore
it is also the symbol of loss.

Returning to the city where I was born,
after so many lies thrown into the depth like plummets,
it is another way of failing among the graves,
of snowing frozen tears that wind will never take away with itself.
But it is not about being afraid of misery, not even an aesthetic urge
to draw universes that stand on their own.
It is not about loosing, not about bemoaning,
not even about this useless scythe that is hanging on my arm, hidden,
it is rather about forgetting, perhaps dying in advance,
crossing from the world to the classic Hades, yet ruined the rashness of the hero.
Hopefully it would be the music,
hopefully a vibrant lighthouse with its shining touch
would contribute to the chorus.
But Madrid does not have mercy for God nor men:
the buildings burning from the inside, and
in their combustion
they take away the innocence, the love, the virginity of pure souls.
The love. What a deep grieving for love, meaningless.
No, life
is not a babble of peace getting closer.
It is war that was, that occurred,; an unexpected flood that in one stroke
gave cause, effect and enthusiastic ending of itself.
No, life is not silence:
it is rather the yell that men classically broadcast in hell.

And I do not fear oblivion, or life, or return,
I do fear only the melancholia that fills me in darkness,
the dark, blackest sorrow coated on my inside walls with -

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