I awoke to a silence
that hummed like a choir of broken mirrors.
The sparrows were flying backward,
their wings scribbling hieroglyphs
against the blue skin of noon.
A door opened in the side of a tree—
not a door you could knock on,
but one that breathes,
a lung of bark inhaling centuries.
I stepped inside and found my own bones
arranged in constellations,
each rib a ladder to some forgotten moon.
Voices, soft as moths,
whispered equations of love
no mathematician would dare to solve.
And there—
at the horizon’s crooked elbow—
a candle burned without flame,
guiding me toward the left hand of shadow,
where beginnings end,
and endings are born again
as startled birds
inside the skull of God.
:: 09.12.2025 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 