Silver Verse Poetry

Shards - What is persistent? (on Wattpad)

Squeezed inside the hand, what is persistent?

Caught the setting sun - what will destiny now do? Drums roll on and on. . . . A train is passing by, an insect leaping high, a path is fading out, a thought in flight goes by.

The train has now completed its whole run, people get off, people go on their way. I caught the forty-five of September, when I did not know what the sky was like.

The insect has completed its long leap behind the hedge from thirty years ago. Whether it was November or February it never knew a thing about my care.

The pathway leads to Giordano Bruno. I don't know what in him is so rebellious, but his system, pure and linear, has never betrayed my countryside.

The thought… what does the thought matter? A vertigo of deep night, an adolescent call upon the water, an idea on the tomb of light.

Cold indifference. Your quiet step unfolds now and crosses through me.

Before you leave me, let me stay right here. That single syllable of desperation did not protect us from the long surplus.

Wasted diary. Each falsehood is reflected in scents and footprints.

Who resolves the wavering of Summer? Philosophy and every single verse burns in a single page of summary.

Now to realize. The deep embrace unfolds me and abandons me.

Here the asphalt, over there mountain shapes. Betrayals as distant as the Sun still warming one's own skin. To smile, in order to walk away.

Far from the psyche and far from faith, trees, forerunners of the distant, trees, wordsmiths of the silence. To smile over freedom.

Chirping dialogues of the present, tasks in progress, tasks completed, arrived with who knows what talent. To smile while having nothing left.

Rubble and debris of the city, trousseaus of stories with no end ever. Among the burn marks, the signs of a truck. To smile with the wind passing through.

A music of summer holiday minimizing with innocence a subtle tremor of disquiet. To smile at the wall of anguish.

I do not know, that is the beginning of everything. So tell me what it is - what it is that releases this race you said was made of faith.

I've already tried - I've already tried - and it did me no good to chase after. Then do it again, do it once more. Look down there at what is happening,

it's a race like so many others why chase it? You meanwhile do it - because you know in the end you will. What's the use? I am tired of everything.

If you're tired why do you ask me? Look around and tell me what you see. I see only that I cannot stop, that I must not stop - can I or must I?

What does it matter? They have always been and always will be synonyms. I must do it from the root of the soul to the root of the eyes - but why are you doing it?

Because I have no other possibility. That's why you're here, don't sit down beside me, don't do it until the weariness becomes my death.

Don't do it, that's not what I wanted. The waterfall is by now at the end, you go forward and leave me here at the end. Do you know where the storm surge

To receive a wave of sunset, to remain furious with the Sun. It descends into the ordinary: paper, pen, outburst, re-listening, nothing, descent.

To look at the jury with the weariness of one who has done nothing and asked for nothing. Existential tally: not having done anything great or interesting.

The elevated becomes unbearable, the banal becomes the salvation come down to earth. Judged for what was not done, and carrying the ridicule

all the way to the end of life, into the tomb. The vertical of hatred and falseness falls through the fine weather of dusk. Carrying it along wears you out, but rewards

envy - the garden dries up sowing the same seed again - how much does the "again" and the "usual" amount to? - the ridiculous, first truth,

The day comes awake. A breath now living, the Sun sets down in the sea.

What cause is there to smile still? Facing the slow dripping down, of fire, and the horizon still seeks after the white breeze.

One comes, one does, and at last one goes away. One comes because chosen, one comes because fate has willed it so.

When the infamous questions arise, there's who perfumes them with optimism, there's who coats them with pessimism.

Useful or useless, the mirrors begin to take root - hope, faith, craving, and will.

Opposing mirrors, a single vision: to dream a new horizon. Every gesture always becomes the means.

One comes, one does, and at last one goes away. One does because the law has grown, one does because there's nothing else to do.

How many are the steps taken, how many the ones descended? The eternal battle between Dream and Flesh.

The window that opens, first the Infinite, then Oblivion. Out of obligation one plays at life.

Once the challenge is accepted, the vision clothes itself in the intricate Silk of the Binomial.

One comes, one does, and at last one goes away. One goes because the day sets, one goes because the game ends.

In the game there are two iron laws: the law of sickness, the law of death. The appeal to vision.

Little matters how one has worn the garment. Everything sooner or later creases, everything sooner or later must withdraw.

What comforts me is that song, nauseating. To seek it out is my obsession - to know what I am within the labyrinth of solitude.

Nothing changes, offering a rose to God, but maybe it keeps it for the day when I'll have to decide alone, without the bonds dictated by the shadow.

Reality stays along the edge of the ditch, truth stays in the limbo of knowing and not knowing - not knowing if it's entering or leaving

from the depth the eye has sketched me into. Everything is truth, as well as passage upon the mallet of death. Who knows how many deaths I'll live, and how many deaths

instead I'll watch scratch at my ledger of lives lived and lost. That song is still turning, wherever it has gotten to doesn't matter.

Threshold of perishing on the turntable of night. The lights are overturning now, the colors overturn themselves between waves that only know how to overturn

upon the enchanting coast of illusion. Outside the Moon shines bright, inside it rains as if it had never rained before on the eternal depth of desire.

How can one turn amid so much noise here? How does one play inside the thunder that breaks because it doesn't know what else to do? To rip apart, to tear apart, create -

eternal aristocracy of nature. In every step accomplished—attempted to accomplish - disorder does fulfill itself in the tyrannical act of erasing.

In this aroma of water, of renouncing always slow and anguishing, magnifies the turnstile of total submission. One romanticizes not to cry alone,

Now that it's over? Now that everyone's everything is out, now the day has fallen on the curtain, now the stands have all emptied themselves, my shadows remain.

The motion has ended. The mechanics have all been completed, the dynamics have exhausted themselves, the kinematics have gone silent, my shadows remain.

What is indifference? Behind the colors of voices now silent, behind the shadings of tensions long spent, behind the weariness of reason itself, my shadows remain.

To turn around once more. In this world that goes on with me, in this world made of nights and of stars, in this world of a false equilibrium, my shadows remain.

Before me, the sunset. Arms folded, solitude stands watching, arms folded, the multitude stands watching, arms folded along the long road ahead, my shadows remain.

Remission of sins upon the volcano of inhuman splendor. Rises the weeping made of black sand, the hands of ancient blood rise up.

The sky is of azure treachery, the swords born from the chests weep without blade.

It will grow amid songs of fidelity, of honor and dishonor.

Their blade decides the fate in the trial of deceit, in the trial of love, in the trial of the sacred oath.

Upon the root of the blazing dance those hearts will burn - of knights, mercenaries, and the learned.

They will rise along the incandescent sacrifice, the Sun will follow them, the rain will shield them, the river will console the spirits forged among the promised diamonds in the searing chalice of gifts and confessions.

At last they will breathe the flame of creation. The anguished weight, laden with flesh and with action, will be decided by the final touch - the eternal lightness, the eternal weight.

The flame they sought will be extinguished at the final touch. Raised to the sky shall be the Sword made of all swords.

They will turn their backs. The sunset stays behind, the voices stay behind.

Memories retreat, but the present ends by turning its back.

The rejection of time shapes on the shoulders the gait of ridicule.