Upon the waves, silent, dreaming, the dying boat lets me drift where the sapphire lichen doesn't grow.Far from the black skylines and away from the bells of pollen.Going nowhere, being the only son of the dawn, I dip into a half-sleep, as the Sirens reap the harmony of their songs.A little death thus finds me, peacefully, in this perfection of silence.My eyes slipped into a kaleidoscopic slide-show, my feet coiled by the lingering salt, ashes from the primordial fire, and my hands held each other narrowly as if awaiting a gift.Oh but my skin could not sleep, could not rest, it betrayed my exile.But as the dying boat turned, languidly, uselessly, it brought winds that crawled across my anxious skin and brought to it visions of distant near lands.My dreams suddenly changed, swept away by what drifted from across the sea.The dying boat first faced north.
"Hills abound in heathers
Silhouetted by mountains of emerald
They are born and re-born
In the noble gestures re-telling Roman triumphs.
A butterfly settles on the nameless Dome
And cries aloud to call his Satyr's
To bring sperm from the Holy River
And honey from the Phoenix's hills.
A truth is found at the end of dusk:
A thousand lives lived in a minute without seconds
All to the beat of coy, moon-lit kisses.
When the wine no longer flows
Eyes close and smile, and praise
The sisters and brothers made tonight."
My eyes stirred beneath my breathless lids.To the north, in the north, the other side of the Carobs lie! Spirits and shadows living with history on the tip of their tongue, moulding and re-shaping it like blue clay.How is freedom won, I thought? Is it a brief journey across stormy seas? Or is t a conquest over a vicious routine? It is certain: no religion, no society, can utter an answer.Not even the precisest science.No, we need new avenues to search.The dying boat now turned its ailing figure westward.
"The girl born in the port of obsidian
Smiles in the mid-day sun caressed by the white palace,
Where the omnipresent bat forever conquers ill mornings;
She shows no excitement, but her heart bleeds tears of joy:
'The heavens are a rose in the plush avenue,
Fairies dancing upon the air, bring me back here, when I sleep.'
The shade of the reclining fountain
Bestills her thoughs of venom, of dusty lusts,
And gives to her a potion of abracadabric tears,
Which she turns to alterless prayers to her last vision.
The heavens are a rose in the plush avenue,
Fairies dancing upon the air, bring me back here, when I sleep.'"
Don't awake blinkered eyes, stir gently in your cradle: don't escape.Every journey that is worth it, is always long.Roads obstruct, caves strangle the lillies, hands outstrecthed deter, and outdated practices castrate.What will it take to be rid of these lies that bind? Ridicule? Prayer? Violence? ....Everything! And all from the poet's pen.Gently the dying boat shifted southward.
"Asleep in the desert, the oasis shakes off tears of night
Waiting for a new Fate from the messenger of light.
The parched palms pawn the clouds for confidences of veils
But what is left if the dark riders' promise fails?
The northern star is deaf to the wishes obscured by songs of sand;
'The red flowers will never grow in this land.'
A family passes through, in shrouds and shrubber, praising snakes
Surviving with pride in their own phantom lakes.
What would die if a crescent rose in the midst of this void?
No, no, only the visions of the foiled.
And the black lizard still sees the thousand divinities
Amidst the mirage's double-faced profanities."
Such a strange scene, moving so still; I can't get enough.The weather is changing, black clouds slowly entwine the horizon.They bring with them our real existence.No other person made us live as we live, no rule ever gave us our state of mind.The reason for our every thought is found in the afternoon sun, the reason for our every concept is found in the season's character, and our every God's birthplace is found in what the rains feed us.Reluctantly the dying boat turned its gaze to the east.
"Valleys in heat, courting the Aleppo pines
Roar through the mountains of prophecies.
Children sleep sweet slumber under ravaged vines
Their mothers preparing humble banquets for the future.
Isolation in a quiet house in the noisy, proud street
A peaceful melancholy warms the heart without vice.
The sparrows climb the lucid clouds to sing aloud
To the monk, smiling, feeding the gentle lice."
Ah I see the sky again! The dreams have slided off my shoulders like rivers over a cliff-face.Where am I? Am I still here? Yes, the dying boat still lingers, on its foaming deathbed.Take me with you wherever you go, if I cannot see what I saw in the dreams, I want to go, wherever, anywhere.Let it be darkness or flames I see, anything but the endless crosses and circular routes.
I will sleep again and hope to awake in death; a new paradise.Oh but now I see once again the familiar horizon: dying boat your death leads me back to life.Where the dreams just phantoms, where they useless? The journey has ended where I have escaped from.
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