This Night Wounds Time

Springtime Eight

Unnatural darkness is more complete,
Having nothing to do
With the absence of light,
The comfort of sleep,
The longest retreat, quietly
Passing from flesh
To the heart of the sea.

A darkness which dries
Your breath like a sponge
And swells into fever
Of gnats in the gloom,
Has nothing to do

With fear suspended and stilled,
The taste of soil
Enriched by flesh.

Something was here, just now,
And then it was gone.

Manmade darkness never departs.
A colony of tar around the bones,
It gathers thick subduing the will,
Until your muffled scream
Turns into bile,
And springtime,

Accustomed to all that's green,
Sustains all mutations, all pain,
Having nothing to do

With words hurled from their towers
By the guards of the gods,
Protecting their only name
From a stain,
Already erased

by heat.
For, remember, the fire of hell
Gives forth no light.

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This page was last updated on September 8, 1996, Nicosia, Cyprus.

© 1996 Tefkros Symeonides

The darkness is from a background image I picked up somewhere on the Web.
The bird rider is from a painting by Moebius (Jean Giraud).