vineri, 5 octombrie 2012

A birth in spite of nature

I was born of the Word
Feather crafted in a dough made of void
winter born of charred summer
in the fires of weeping
and hot breath of mad foal

God touched the tip of my head
and blinded by so much light
I was born in the pain of wisdom
strange, a taste of blood on the tip of the tongue
devil's salt in my eyes

Skull smashed in pieces
by this heavy touch
I was born falling
by the highest mountains
in the wave of scorned flood

I always climbed
towards a a sky too high
loosing my footing as I walked from an empty cloud to another
I was born alone
learning to die while I dreamed

I was born of a Song
in a promised house
which was never mine
ruined castle
a fox's den built of wasp's hums

Bloodied, scarred feet
in a search too grand
I was born in the desert
where they carried sins
to be washed in the sand of ashes

I always whispered the Word and the Song
eyes counting stones
soul lost in Japan's blossoms
I was born in the dried ink
of a poet too romantic

I gave birth to myself
as I knew best, as I could
yet the light still burns
in the nights falling over glass deserts
carrying a sword, crafted in the fire of old steeds
a word of faded ink
and the phoenix feather stuck in my crown
I was born slowly as I ran
always searching for some answer
in a shallow humming of beyond
by the sea
It was me that gave birth...to myself
always of the dank soil
from ashes tossed in waterfalls
too high and too cold
in the volcano of love

I was born
of the Word
against nature's will