WHERE THE FUTURE REBUILDS ITSELF
The visitor felt a pall
Over the old landscape,
Deep, frigid as steel,
Hard without the sadness.
Anchored in his attention
Were the converging lines,
All ending at the same
Distant point, unseen, unpredictable.
His mind rested in a vestibule of intervals
Set between breaths and sighs.
Hope had atrophied-
This was different, some new “existential” moment
To acquire a different heritage
From which he´d crawl towards sunrises to come.
It was not hyperbole to say
The flows of Life would change, yet again,
Converge, and rest a while,
Before he considered another idea of living which would awaken,
Somewhere out among the blending of those lines.