LatinosUSA

All the gods of this world are resting
the sky has sucked in all sounds
and turned perfectly bright

On such a silent noon, looking up in a dark dwelling
like someone waiting for a miracle
sitting at the half-bright, half-dark doorway

Behind are the furniture in the dark, clumsy old beasts
where light dies in their mouths
behind are a lifetime’s dust, utensils and fabrics

The water jar full of oil is sweating
over there, the childhood cart hesitates
like a lamb nudging the corner
with a note for exchanging secrets still stuck on its head

Relatives are sleeping in a deeper place, behind the curtains
their eyelids are serene, trusting this noon
almost making you believe the people are gone
will step across your threshold and come back
with fruits of eternal blue

(A street where summer is gradually slanting
your father is holding a watermelon
walking towards you with a smile
from then on, he always keeps coming
coming, yet never arriving)

Nothing can save you!
the plain is slowly smoking
blue dust pervades the mountaintop
not memories, nor love, nor even dreams

There’s only one threshold left in the world
sleeping relatives unknowingly sink into paleness
flowers and leaves are flying, trees are planted into the fog
the ever-cracking abyss
light and shadow interweave, like the confused eyes of gods

(One noon in summer, you sit on the threshold of life
and find that the house where generations have lived
is just an old and dark frame
exposed to the light of the afterlife, rugged and empty
your shadow, conjoined-infant with the threshold,
is cast upon the rolling white fog
like a monster probing the abyss of existence)