Dream in the meadow
Dream in the meadow
Shreds of grey clouds drifted next to me
while my moveless body sails the river.
Just a glimpse of blinding light lifted the movement
and there was the sensation of lead in each vein, in each artery.
The trees’ drizzle fondled my dry eyes,
and the treetops’ echoes and dancing lilies joined in.
The cold wind had ploughed my skin when I realized:
I had already been the corpse I was contemplating
(ignoring the sky);
And I could also glimpse at the five-petal flower
(of a yellow so deep like loneliness)
that danced through the meadow.
Death is but a sigh
says my body — that death body
and the current drift my inert totality.
I overturn oxygen and my lungs — who are also trees —
widen in the Cribs Range.
Is this the frontier between life and death?
you wonder as you walk in the likeness of someone who observes with stillness
(blue skin of the death marching in East and West).
The Moon’s navel revealed
in the lagoon lost in the valley at the foothills of the Iliac Mountains,
where an unexpected twist develops and Penelope no longer waits at home; but the journey calls her name in each leaf, in each shadow.
I exhale abundantly, I exhale quite long;
I inhale with ice’s stabs clenching into my nose
and the cold is colour sepia.
Then I wake up, breathing profoundly. I observe it all in the blue like stone darkness around me.
