(3. acceptance)

what are you selling, gringo?
bulls skinned alive while staring into the depth of red sky
screaming with tears in wine...
what are you selling -
a blink of an eye?
you're praying to the death and
your child is making his yantra out of a skin of a snake
but you still believe in fortune
and you're rich, and you're wise
like the shadow that lingers in the light's embrace so delightfully divine
what are you selling?
me, my petito, my life?

I've dreamed of a darkness that flew through the sky
and killed all that's living and sucked in the light
I've dreamed of a dream so wild, so uncouth
that droll glimpse of void made me cry, and I cried
at the edge of that childhood, so neglected, benign
(like the virgin for Christ before coming alive)
I soaked my cheek in the blood of the sun and then
I looked at the sky without cease
without ease
at the collapse of meaning under the burden of why
that motivates self in becoming
a man

since
I've never dreamed
instead
I struggle just
to understand

so
what are you selling, gringo,

an end?

*

(4. longing for)

they were so aligned
in the shine of a dime so untouchably closed
in the marrow of time
twisting interlaced in chambers and stairs so perfect, divine
that inception itself would have disrupted
without taking their breath into cells

with a blow
their shadow was driven away
in the whispering sound of a feeble cry
a dream to an end
below the sinking explosions of suns

but their fall demands
from within a bearing that craves
neither the end, nor even the freedom itself
just for you to taste their perishing sense
to endure the reason that stands behind of that self
(faith, mettle, glare, shame, disbelief, meekness
and, above all, adherence)

and the child stretched out his hands
and caught the glittering remains
in a puddle of rain
disturbing the reflections in waves