Return

Passageways hiding the vice of their protectors, give way, behind trees of sulphur that breaks the day in two.No word could etch the southern morn, no voice think of the norhtern afternoon: fountains scribble porcelain characters with dirtied hands.

I gaze on a low window as I pass through the silence of nowhere.A green curtain borders its young face, blown gently by a forgotten spring wind.Is it a face, or a caricature? Does the highest of streets look at me through the mechanic reflection of the window pane? I hear it cough as soon as someone passes by.It could be a little farmer passing, going to the height of day.His cordiroy shadow blinkers my view of the window: leaving me with empty eyes.I can still hear it, coughing up invitations, not to it's door but to the door it reminds me of; mine.

It says to me, smiling when no one is around:
"Get away from this melancholy.This oppennes that strangles.In the garden behind you the wind builds its tomb.Summer prepares its epirah.The valley of roads glittering beneath you is open only to those who do not fear mortality: denying life to their limbs by embracing the nonlife of their words.On every branch of every tree, there is the tear of a little sparrow crying for the little morning worm now lost in its mothers bloodied talons.With every mournful chirp, a new hunger forms.On the beaches red with dawn, the flowing, calming waves, serve the sixty swords as their nameless cause.At night the moon pushes the waves unto the feet of thieves robbing the coast with their kisses.And the gardens...you know, hide...every breed of vice."

The window stopped to take a breath, then continued:
"So be rid of all this melancholy, return my son, to the freedom behind closed doors.Let the winter that may come, batter your window with whips of rain, whilst you enjoy the spring of your thoughts."