MY OWN DEATH

At night of the Hight of winter, when from the Netherlands comes the brutal sun, lightning without rain
and at the same time clouds with frost, rain for a while, hail, snow and wind of the elements, large and small.

No end in sight; it is a day with a change, storm of clouds, storm of winds, shipwreck, submarine, decomposition
and the four veils.

No beginning and no end.

WHEN the moon in the morning or at noon is as bright as an orb, or almost, and it becomes night before the fourth
evening of the lunar month.

I, to stand in your light as in a spotlight:
I to look into the eyes of a crescent: love, flame, bed. You, great, powerful, oh so distant, as luminous as stars.
A desert of fire. At night you search for me.

THE cypresss of the monasticism are under your feet, the nuns walking barefoot, when they keep time, when they sing
while tying themselves together and when they put their tongues to the left and to the right in the custom of zdrakas.
On the walls of their chapel, near the chapel and the curtain, there are female saints, goddesses, whom they adore,
and those that they cover with veils and they cover with gilded haws. It is as if they were entering a house and praying
in front of the altar. The angel of women, whom they saw in a dream and whom they know to be linked to the will of God,
blazed with stars when they looked at her.

To them she is a light, a light that penetrates them like the opening of a wound. And they throw their arms over her,
when they press her feet.

That is how they pray.

WHEN i heard them chanting, I felt like a stone, as if pierced by the time of their desires. The stones of the market of Damascus
by the way of the river.

How have they lived, with their desire, like dew in their eyes.

I, my feet up, the state of being crushed, felt also that I have attained my purpose and that nothing remains, nothing is more than dust,
nothing any longer is alive.

One wind against my whole body, threw me to dust.

These are days of longing, of vulnerability, of vulnerability. These days. I stand like a young woman in front of a mirror.
Who is that person staring at me? Someone long dead and buried.

Everything that had lasted for centuries is gone.

I am facing my own death.

:: 11.10.2020 ::

About EPRobles

Writer, Artist. I like to paint abstract acrylic images onto canvas. I love to read everything, and I especially enjoy science, philosophy, and the arts. I'm new to the blog experience and I very much enjoy it! I hope to learn as much about all the features that WordPress offers and thank you -- my visitor -- for taking time to read my words. Peace and love... View all posts by EPRobles

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