The four points of the compass meet in the future


94

A final shadow closes my eyes
Unchaining my soul in a mortal hour
But beauty will never die

Life will spread from star to star
Like a magical pollen, and I will whisper
Poems for immortal hours
Descendants carry God in their hearts

Just the goodness of nature
Memory of love, war, swimming flame
Of seasons, struggle, sacrifice

Burning into the future with a will
For creation, for renewal, for innovation
Your body is in the memory of my bones
But these bones will be washed into the water

Like dust, as will yours, but progress
Is a melody of sunshadow layered
From mind to mind until consciousness

As in the whiteness of still water
Carries forth flowers that never forget
A respiration of intelligence
A light of quantum conversation that

Is answered by galactic eyes
Evolution stripping the futility
Of her limitation of symbol

Her immaturity of imagination
The goal being a written silence that sings
A tongue of rain, a sign of the reverse of life
A big-bang of terraces at dawn
A lonely place where we all meet.

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AGNES CECILE
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But It will not leave the memory


85

The cold lips of the night
Kiss you in Rome, brighten me
In Montreal, where I am today

The column of last grief
The vaporous thought that lingers
A while floating into the cosmos
There is no reason behind errors
Only destiny, time’s loving

Her knowing oneself alive
How to know oneself living
How to forget one’s own knowing

The half-open eyelids of day
Thirst in solitude for divinity
A kind of transparency of hope
That no death can sever
Only dawns bandage the dark

But the wounds that made our heart fresh
Are as easily bled as eyes opened
I open my eyes, to you, to the universe
It’s the same world of repetition
But something inside of me has changed.

Photo Courtesy:

AGNES CECILE
https://www.facebook.com/agnescecile
http://agnes-cecile.deviantart.com/gallery/23399055/Featured
https://www.youtube.com/user/agnescecile
https://www.facebook.com/SilviaPelissero

I exist in a room abandoned by language


27

I lift syllables to plant
They will ripen in your mind
Like wheat of the ancient fields

Where our ancestors ate language
And leisure, like we have never known
We who labour like machines
As slaves might, while our lives
Is as a poem where the trees incandescent

Must watch themselves wither
As sheets of paper gone to waste
I lift houses of sound

To your legendary fracture of silence
These vacant lots of night-time
Where a pale puddle of your
Grip upon reality suddenly blazes
With figures of your once dreams

The summer has oxidized mornings, sunsets
A weightless winter awaits, as scattered
Pages are left to turn, each one

Words in the shape of a cloud of dust
As white as snow, as lingering
As the cold, and the murmur of a million
Leaves that once were, but are now only
The idea of color, the texture of earth.

Last Slope of Summer


21

There is a stillness that catches me
In middle of the last hours of Summer
Catching me from the inside

Adrift, in the memory of haunted
Centuries that are no more
I hear low voices in the horizon
Chanting syllables of dust
Nothing moves but Autumn’s approach

Time is lethargic and artificial
I can feel the low sky vibrate
Inside my heart, each hour feeling

Larger, more spacious and more fleeting
In an acceleration where memory
Is lost in a whirlwind of sensations
And I promiscuously must harden myself
To survive these faceless moments

I have unlived today’s suffering
Until I escaped memory itself
And the idea that I was conquered by
Mortal hours that had no light to return.