Tetra

"Come what may" said once the thief,
In adoration of the mercy of God.
And lifted the work of moonless night,
Fled along the cobbled street on
Which the oil lamps faded
His steps.

I fear not God!For we are
Are not of the same stuff.
And like in Aristotle's thought
No "third man" can ever join us
- As he said to Plato, and we
All believed -

No man is the equal of another
And we are fooled to believe
That all sorts of rules are made
To drive us from ourselves.
We are sewn to each other,
And anon.

The words of the priest prophet
And teacher are hollow vessels
No experience can be translated.
We are animals of no rationality,
And our language is that of
Action.

Ode To November

The cobbled streets shine in the tragic lamplight.They extend in corridors and endless pathways, leading into perdition.No trace of solace could be found on the grey walls that can bearly hold their own, fleeting, grace.Empty and spaceless the street unfolds, November. The damp sidewalk gapes into fine cracks, that seem to stream up and beyond unclear limits.The sound of running water, the trickle of some unseen stream, the dead waters of the street.Falling, crooked rooftops loom over the bent buildings, grey dusk and the storming crows, November.Trees that reach out in a hundred arms with a thousand fingers, grasping the fog that milks over the city, unholy watchers of the evening twisting their bodies into demented shapes against the fading hues of mock colour.Tiny shards of glassy rain cut our troubled faces, and the wind licks and salts our heavenly lacerations.The loneliness of the streetlamps pride into abandonment, November.No prayers for November...

"(...) Along the reaches of the street held in a lunar synthesis, whispers lunar incantations dissolve the floors of memory and all its clear relations its divisions and precisions.Every streetlamp that I pass beats like a fatalistic drum, and through the spaces of the dark midnight shakes the memory as a madman shakes a dead geranium."( T. S. Eliot - Rhapsody on a Windy Night )

November's cold chain constricts my wake, and sings me its lullaby.Once heavy eyes close up their lashes the specters of insomnia take form out of the shapeless grey window frames, November.Black smoke from old chimneys, black ravens and grey skies, November my firing squad.