On the last line of the precipice
The moon, breaking, is soaked in blood while
I, naked, stand
on the last line of the precipice, here
(where my wings long for the caress of
the shadow of a cruel gust), I
wash in her light to in her be reborn
after the arrival of that bitter dawn.
In the mean-time
the horizon gobbles ships full of wishes,
the waves bless the rocks with despairing kisses
that send millions of salty droplets to meet the sky,
my lips;
My hurting roots drag themselves for a last
sip from the deepest end of the abyss and
a gentle rain of tiny gentle flowers
unleashed by the sea of dandelions
that brought me here whispers,
“remember. Remember good. As
neither from death nor from life
is there return.”
