A Quiet Burial

Last night
My cricket died.
I found him
In his usual resting place
By the edge of my window
Standing stiff, upright
Dignified as a pharaoh.

There
On that same spot,
He would spend the days
In avid contemplation
Scrutinizing
My every movement
With his beady black eyes
That never close
From their meditation
A pensive monk.

Feverish musician,
No longer
Will your boisterous song
Disturb the sleep
Of the gaudy sunflowers.

No more
Will your stubborn hind-legs
Compete
With the murderous crow
At dawn.

Last night,
My cricket died.
So I picked up
The tiny corpse
And buried it
In the sand
Beneath the fig tree.

His proud antennae
Still pointed, jutting out
In a soldier's salute
Of mock farewell
As I immersed him
Beneath the grains.

–Painting: by Caspar David Friedrich

The Moon and the Lost Child

"I want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to withdraw from the tumult of cemeteries.
I want to sleep the dream of that child
who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas."
–Federico Garcia Lorca

The moon, incandescent
Traverses the ocean waves
Turning their pages
In her nocturnal lamp.

Her gaze is lowered
A blind-fold bars her sight
Breathlessly, she searches
For the youth she lost.

Beneath a barren sky,
A commotion of waves
Uncover a brief glimpse
Of golden tresses
Combed affectionately
By the currents.

Oh, bitter child
Inconsolable one
Amongst the tousling waves
Sounds your lamenting song
How fairly they uncover
Your scarlet petals.

Shimmering stars,
Arrogant Topazes
You are of no help.
The moon is grief-stricken
And restless as a maid.

Frantically, she searches
Beneath subterranean deeps
And creeping abysses
Leaving no grave unturned.

She searches still
For the youth she lost.

Rosy Infinity

Tainted flower,
Hidden fire
Of my injured soul.

The night pays tribute
To our breathless struggle.

Amidst the cool breeze,
And sonorous crickets.
My longing seeks
Your Rosy Infinity.

Defeated Warrioress,
Your tiger claws
Excavate the moist earth
Of my bleeding heart.
As the ocean of my desire
Inundates your bitter fruit.

Fallen angels
Encircle our tenderness,
Bearing us
To the land of dreams.

The Impossible Song

Here is a path
Not taken.

A way
Not written.

A note
Not sung.

Here is a land
Uncharted.

A sea
Unsearched

An impossible
Song.

Walk down the trail
You will hear it:

Neither straight
Nor broken.

Wade into the stream
You will feel it:

Neither moist
Nor dry.

Look beneath the veil:
You will see it:

A fire burns in secret.
A prayer without a breath.

An impossible Song.