It is said
that you and I
are going to get together
when the moon will conquer the day
in the nightshade.
It is said
that the music would accompany us
and the vegetation would dance
the silent game of the weak and the dead,
blaming poetry and the rhythm of destruction
for all your gestures, your messages
or my detention.
It is dreamed
that nobody would return our days,
no one will land on Earth anymore
the planet is empty,
the song is gone
the light is poor.
Your eyes are getting old, they play our affection as a foreign affair
inside the drums
aside to the road
opposite to the crumbled house we used to meet
and make love
and forget all about misfortune, misunderstandings or distress.
It is paced and packed and gone
-the luggage we had with us.
All to be returned to the proper owners without any further delay.
The air became thin and I could see your arms begging for redemption
in small movements around your blue body, in front of me:
the man with no knees,
lying on the surface of the water in my glass,
incapable of uttering any sentence,
not educated to sleep on the couch in the living room,
impossible to be dislocated against their will.
It is played.
Already ended.
Almost completed in beauty and untouchable for years now.
So, rest, my Lord.
Rest and think of me while the band beats your heart with pompous preludes.
From head to toes we shiver
and our hope prolongs the wait every time
with another circle around the sun.
It is said and done
and nothing can be returned to its primary function.
No, not now when my shoulders are covered in cold silver
and they feel strong under the armour borrowed from museums.
It is said.
And the creation walks alone aimlessly
searching for help once more;
again and again with flashes of great memories
stuck in your band album
beside our bed.
