- Books, Literature, and Writing
My weary journey
On hilltop high
With an empty bag on a stick
To the cliff
Like Lorca taken out to shot
In a lush field of olive trees.
Between Viznar and Alfacar,
The devil’s long thin nailed fingers
Scratched the beautiful world.
How lonely up here
This tiny loft
This barren remote toft
He said in a sorrowful tone,
His head hardly up,
But his eyes as wide as two farmer’s strides
With a grief that could milk a cow
Staring at the fog,
The never-ending emptiness.
How dreadful up here
He returned to his soliloquy
This sudden full-stop
This weary journey
Certainly not worth the hype,
I've seen the worst,
The woes,the horrible
But this moment must be the unbearable,
I am stuck
Should I sit embracing my knees,
Regurgitating the stories of the mythical beasts slain with my bare fists
And all the regrets as leaves drifting into the gutter
Washed by the sweeping rains?
Should I take an other step forward
And dance on the fine line of perdition's edge?
Is it gainful
As a last ditch-attempt
To spread wings and set to the breeze?
No,This is a dangerous acrobatic
As my Mom told me once
When I tried to jump through the window as Batman
I am not born by this talent,
To venture everything in one gulp
In one step,in one thud.
What should I do then?
I am so tired,
Unable to make it go
Enlighten me !
The ghost of the lost flying ship!
A trick to turn back the clock
To the jumping-off point?
A magic wand to turn my life to the womb
And my knowledge to zero gain?
I am in a tight corner
Half step out of sanity
No connection with the rest of the herd.
Like a hawk on a pole
With wings clipped
Under the shedding light
No going back from the divide could help nor
Going forward clapping what it s left of it
Could bring it back to the sky ,
It's a dead horse case
Useless to beat
Useless to pump a new blood into the dried-up veins
It's tough to kiss the ashes
And teach during the nocturnal survilliance
The best way to to cook fall-off-the-bone baby-back ribs
Tougher it is to spill all my heart ,thoughts,scars like a dying guru
-Who has no life for one more day to stand -
On a Rosseta stone
And leave the stage for the rain to splash ballet.
As a child I was taught
All the rivers must run down to the ocean
No matter how long it takes
And all the birds must return to their nests
No matter how far off they are
But myself no longer recall the steps taken
The bitter battles
The drilling holes
Where I fell and leaped out like a deaf frog successfully
But alas! as a lame I lived a life afterwards
Where I used to perch within
And ate my daily bread
Under a leaking roof above
Tumbled down by wicked sharp winds.
The crunching tires
O’ the crunching tires
On the gravel path to the whirlpool of beauty
This journey certainly
Not worth the hype,
I must admit
Today ,not my day
Never has been
The womb of light.