What will you implore
from the daughters of denial and chance,
Aporia and Contingency,
if above their firmament I dwell—
veil of a sky
that doesn't see you?
Will you seek to immortalize them
with promises
that only make you believe
you could brush a tomorrow,
fate you don't know
how to reach?
Look at yourself:
unarmed, naked,
hungry and filthy.
Look at you:
what is your name,
if even your tongue
you have forgotten,
mortal?
How will you tell Her
that she was never Her,
if all you bring
are traitorous butterflies?
from the daughters of denial and chance,
Aporia and Contingency,
if above their firmament I dwell—
veil of a sky
that doesn't see you?
Will you seek to immortalize them
with promises
that only make you believe
you could brush a tomorrow,
fate you don't know
how to reach?
Look at yourself:
unarmed, naked,
hungry and filthy.
Look at you:
what is your name,
if even your tongue
you have forgotten,
mortal?
How will you tell Her
that she was never Her,
if all you bring
are traitorous butterflies?
Wings of time,
you rise above winter,
halting bursts
of bygone eras;
rain is your offering
to the heart of my storm.
Deny me, you,
deny me a second time,
and you shall make me
legend of the impossible
—Romance of the Denied—
tsunami is my reality.
Deny me, you,
when you are already
being devoured.
you rise above winter,
halting bursts
of bygone eras;
rain is your offering
to the heart of my storm.
Deny me, you,
deny me a second time,
and you shall make me
legend of the impossible
—Romance of the Denied—
tsunami is my reality.
Deny me, you,
when you are already
being devoured.
Do you feel the beat?
I deny you words,
roots, own roots,
that sink and sprout again
longing to be air
when nothing remains in them;
and if somehow I'm desired
I'll deny us too:
to us,
Judges of Time,
realm where we are suspended.
Above us both
air will also pour
dying of rain;
Land of a final verse
falling from you,
hiding your tears,
frozen,
sky of summoned words
that surge from that tsunami,
now knowing themselves well,
a time upon which they seethe,
and form the geometry of the poem
until they reach you.
And I sense it while we beat:
either I remake your sky,
or we deny ourselves;
Aporia.
I deny you words,
roots, own roots,
that sink and sprout again
longing to be air
when nothing remains in them;
and if somehow I'm desired
I'll deny us too:
to us,
Judges of Time,
realm where we are suspended.
Above us both
air will also pour
dying of rain;
Land of a final verse
falling from you,
hiding your tears,
frozen,
sky of summoned words
that surge from that tsunami,
now knowing themselves well,
a time upon which they seethe,
and form the geometry of the poem
until they reach you.
And I sense it while we beat:
either I remake your sky,
or we deny ourselves;
Aporia.