I say my final prayer to the stars.
Look how the moon has caught them
in its iron gaze,
making them tremble in their imperfection.
Half-fallen from the sky, the Plough
is soon to quiver on the river waves.
A memory of bird shrieks,
cut by cold sharp winds.
Again I sense the salt,
the taste of sea and sweat and tears.
The fears turn shadows hiding in the dark,
held fast by shackles and by pure steel cuffs.
A thousand souls caught in the devil’s fist
behind high walls of groans and sighs.
Perhaps it’s simply that the cries
were too much like the screaming of the gulls,
much like the dull eyes
hard as thousand year old rock
and so I looked upon them
like upon the sea
all wrath wrapped in eternity.
Each man you touch becomes a saint,
if not for long.
And yet I fear the stardust of salvation
has turned to ash inside my heart.
Its river swelling slowly,
soon it will swallow me, so I will never hear
the stumbling of your breath,
the flutters of your heart
and drowning, I will drink regret
among the floating constellations of the dead.