I cried the louder at birth
so loud that all the hollow deep
of Hell resounded...
but I was not orphan like Oliver Twist
in Pentonville, London.
Just brought into this world
sired by the sullen glare
of tropical sunsets.
I cry now -even louder-
at my mother's ascent
into the unknown as a skylark
from a garden of blue roses
by the sea.
I saw her soaring embracing the sun.
II
Dear mum, you already rest
in some melodious plot of beechen green
guarded by rain-soaked crows
and squirrels in Hampstead Heath.
Your ashes glowing as a constellation
of fresh stars or a new moon goddess.
Oftentimes the Constable's white horse
gallops by neighing your name.
Something in the aroma of your name
calls the scent of wild moors in its mind.
I smell the aroma grazing along
with the horse, now cantering in blue.
And the world outside stop mattering.
0 comentarios:
Publicar un comentario