That Which Is Life

From the womb of stone comes a moan to the ear, as though an age had rolled for an eternity, then rolled again, never once touching its end. Those dreams revealing themselves there... emerge from their darkness and say nothing. It moves on to the rhythm of blow upon blow, through the nausea of evening's darkness, crossing the fracture of dawn's broken head, yet never arriving...! Beneath the walls of the impossible, it has curled in upon itself, with eyes without lids, staring, never blinking. It bears its sickness, its stone fingers, and in its hollows the sediment of hatred and envy, the remnants of betrayals that found no grave. The smiles of the simple-hearted are wiped away from the blackboard of life. That wandering planet, having lost its balance, trembles on the Richter scale of abandonment, weighed down by Sisyphus and the rocks of deception. Strange, that it neither sinks nor falls. This crowded record has left not even the smallest crack through which another hope might enter. The weary spirit gathers the specters of shadow, one after another, so that the narcissus, if only for a moment, may sleep in the embrace of revelation. An eye keeps vigil above— behind the mirrors, between the folds of curtains, beyond the closed windows... The laughter of passing moments, the dust of black noise, the bowed shapes of lamentation... It gathers them all at a turn no eye can see, within its silence, embroidered with caution. Those who climb its stairs do not see it. They sleep upon its skin and do not hear its breathing. That which is life— and we are death.