sábado, 10 de março de 2007

bells


god knows how long
I have sought my way,

and how many villages
I have entered
and passed through

as if they were ghosts,
without noticing anybody,
any house alive.


who could describe
how much snow,

how deep cold
had accumulated
on all those inner paths
that I have crossed
and whose very existence
probably vanished

at my transient departure.

all I remember
are the many presences,
aligned like trees

on both sides of the roads.

they were naked,
turned into
their inner structure
of branches

and helpless expectation,
like the faces and bodies
of the condemned.


strange, I thought,
this usually happens in films,
in dreams,

when everybody awaits
the procession

of some majestic power
about to appear.


has the writing
so much influence

on the fog,
so much ascendancy over
the absences,

or am I just like a ghost myself
passing through the roads
without even listening to
a bell in the distance,
or a sign in my vanishing
footprints?



voj 2007

photo: Evita Alle
"village"

1 comentário:

Mc.Cam disse...

The poetry is well accompanied with the image that you have post.
:-) Mac