About an hour passed
in the arms of silence.
Silence so abysmal
that paused the push of tempos:
the rushing hours of the perpetual now
framed the light on the candle,
frozen like a sculpture of a dance
in the body of a danseuse,
Impregnating lines to volumes,
fecundating time to music,
blank to painting,
epiphany to poetry.
in the current of Lethe
recalling external voyages of reminiscence
on the surface,
solving the endless puzzles of pixels,
convening
in endless channels of visions,
endless possibilities of becoming one
in the endless swarm,
in the madness of facelessness searching for
the consensus of familiar countenance,
grey roads,
the consequent of all the by-lane traffics,
mopping the borders of blacks and whites,
blank and horizon.
::
An hour
that paused the past,
paused the fracture of time on the body of eternity,
past:
the sediment of now!
an hour
peering at the unpausing passings
the plegramer of distance,
staring at the flame of now that always there
dancing in space yet remaining volume-less,
the absurdity of rolling the bowlder
every day round and round around the clock,
The prison of orbit,
always rushing
never going anywhere
like the clock hands
a boat with uneven ores.
an hour, not like the others,
an hour like a boat floating,
oscillating on the river of the seconds,
vacillating between now and then,
clogging the throat of an hourglass,
passing through the needle hole of now,
shimmering on a candle like a candlelight,
rippling the water, everything with current,
the spaceless now conquering every thing,
creating waves out of calm, volume out of zero,
colours out of white, music out of silence.
indenting my eyes
with a lurching pause,
with some ethereal objects of beauty.
screaming: time isn’t just an assembly line,
at least let us be free for an hour,
let us have a soul
extending to timelessness,
let us express the incantation of being alive.
see the whole sea in a drop
on a floating boat lurching on the river.
A little leisure
for the slave oarsmen
of the time!
::
the time that paused everything
watching
it
pass,
a master piece that you only can see
through the epiphany of beatific eyes,
::
an hour like
a bird in the cage
of an unending spiral,
a film reel of a fly!
Like a strawberry
that never flowered
in the thirst of a burning mouth,
Like a grape
that never jingled
on the winding longs
of an unfolding vine,
like un-bloomed
fragrance
of a blossom,
creeping inside the sweat
and the stench of a carnival crowds,
like the train of an instant
behind the eyelid of a perpetual departure,
like a morning dew
upon the eyelashes
of a never pausing eyes of an old soldier,
guarding the bars of his own prison,
like the last sip of water in the withered throat
of a little sacrificial lamb,
like a symphony trapped
in the magic wand of a maestro.
like the chaste soul
of a tramp
who has sold everything but her soul,
like Fantine
in Les Misérables.
