A clear silence is born
in the agony of dawn,
A deeper mystery than prayer.
His wilted hands kiss
flesh to flesh,
while vaporous and inaudible
words escape his lips;
No force for these syllables
deftly crafted in the center of his universe,
Which slowly evolved
into the Seat of despair.
White pillows, white blankets,
wisps of white hair
which no one attends.
There is only his breathing
mistaken as silence,
In the dying heart's core
such a thunder of noise.
Bolivar and San Martin: Guayaquil, Ecuador
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1 comment:
So moving. I love the air of mystery but I'm curious about this man and what his life is like.
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