The path from one thought to the
next is barely bordered by the ghosts of
grass blades which fed once
upon a time on the death of a shadow. The longer
the thought the sweeter the shadow and
the sweeter the shadow the tenderer the silence.
Look at my palms, tell me if you can see
all those lines, tell me if you can speak
to my skin the same way wind speaks to the stones
which it slowly caresses to death. What sort
of music is that which allows the soul to die and why
can’t I simply gaze at a point until that point becomes
the center of something? Of anything. I can
look beneath my eyelids and admire
the capillaries projecting
their shadows against my retina, and all
this talk is nonsense, but in the end
all we have is nonsense, all we have
is the attempt to make order out of chaos.
We strive to see the rules, to understand and accept them,
but let’s face it, what we can never actually do is to create
a rule. We can guess
the lines of emptiness, we can kiss with „parched lips”
the name of all things, but in the end
there will always be
a name
that will never feel our voice shadowing
its existence.

© Liliana Negoi 2017

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