above the mountain of ashes

the rose will rise triumphant, moon-like;

the silence of the meek will pierce the walls of fortresses,

star-shaped hands

will reach for the silver butterflies;

waves after waves of liquid light

will peel from the bodies of dead heroes

and become rivers of gold;

obsessive thoughts in black bouquets

and haunting images of cruelty

will fade into the fragrant evenings…

beware of those who claim

to hold the keys to the iron gates -

there are no answers yet,

just unformed questions

- blind, shape-shifting strings of words

pretending to grow wings and

crumbling in the burning sand soon after…

monsieur Ducasse, master of deceit,

decay, devastation, 

of derelict domes of distress

and damaged souls in damp dungeons;

throw your dice on this path of dust,

choose our destiny,

declare the beginning, deny the purpose,

dance in your grey robe of ashes,

in circles of darkness and pain.

beat the drums to the rhythm of destruction,

drown the world in noise

and show us the final act

in the dim hours of dawn:

all dust. no path.

how can I read this silence, its meaning, temperature and flow,

how can I adjust my wings to the narrow passage through another night?

cries echo in hollow hearts, 

dissipative systems flood the world with a false sense of harmony,

filigree words swarm around the black beehive of what remains untold.

it is never too late for love, he whispers in my ear

in an almost extinct language he tries so hard to keep alive.

but how can I trust him? he comes from a world

where money melts in the mouth like honeycomb

and desire is plump with gold;

he is not even aware that our existence here, on earth

is the somber negative of another life -

all luminous energy and gravity-defying dance.

look, it is waiting for us right there,

behind the red paper curtain.