The shadow of the arms of a tree,
laid soft on a cornish wall-
after the moon sunk into the river,
after the wind strangled the wick.
The coldness of a silent being,
the heaviness of being when no one’s there,
as the night tiptoed into a hedonist’s den-
as the bull-cock was riding a star.
It’s the presence of a ghost in me,
who fears and is made of dark-
it’s his restlessness I carry in my limbs,
it’s his weight that tore me apart.
Living, and living is such a burdensome thing-
Oh, star! Oh, shadow! Oh, unknown!
The terror of waking up in another morning
is in my bones slowly grown-
listening to the scream of the shadow of the arms of a tree
that leapt above far the wall of stones-
to splatter against the zany tiled side walk
for an obtuse thrill and moan.
In pain who thrives and sees,
who came out at night of the desolate den-
watched the blood of the shadow of the arms of the tree,
oozing, trickling, but, then, it called out again:
“The blue star, the dark star, hope
trembling, shuddering, free-
when the bull-cock is done with you,
climb down and stay with me.”
Sadness comes to remind me of death.
The world after I am gone
is the same world;
where the children are playing-
in the indifferent garden of eucalyptus trees-
and waiting to grow up and
to go to a dance;
at the midnight’s den.
Oh, where the butterflies will be sprouting-
Oh, where the brave will be weak at the knees-
Then, when the ambivalent sons and daughters
will be gulping down beer together
at the end of a particularly hard time
on the dance floor-
the wily trees will be falling over each other
and giggling, and whispering in vain,
“Will it, will make them immortal?”