An ale river
Between the mountains
Reels by holy mist.
Dead in the Eden,
The land, the land,
Screaming on the Aragon valley,
“Beyond fragile lips
Of a bleeding, tormented river,
It is lost as the seashore,
And is caressed by mothering wind,
In the crimson river, confined by silence
Which salutes the pre-winter to the lips of
Fire, fire, fire…”
Fire, fire, fire,
Which pales the haulm,
An unfruitful red,
Which speaks in dark rooms
And tinted glasses with bored people
In their betrayal, long live their sun-struck coats
When it gets late in the day and colder,
Paler as a duch dream
That spoke in loneliness
After the shapeless shell,
A long cigarette stains the ground.
Fire, fire, fire,
It is only little.
Someday between
The fog and Valencia,
I will give only silence,
As it croaked of unspoken winter
And black coffee,
With beans and pits.
Moved violently
As an uprisen sound
Courses snow in frosty vineyards
As firewood emerges from pale lips,
Foreword to his shining crystalline cruelty,
As remembered…

© 2019 All Rights Reserved.

7 thoughts on “Firewood.”

  1. One of my regrets: I never got to chop firewood when I lived in Texas. There was never a need for it in SC or Fl, so once I left Texas, I never got the chance

    Anyways, that was random lol

    Liked by 1 person

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