this is how his voyage ended:
there was rage in his heart, clawing to be let out.
the fall from grace was a warning
to us all: dreamers, murderers, saints.
we are acquainted with the path that guides us
toward the inevitable
yet we wonder who opened it for us?
who was the first whose steps
touched its pristine snow?
he barely remembers these days
how its trecherous whiteness melt in his mouth;
it tasted like sugar and honey,
as lies always do.
three sisters veiled in white:
the spinner, the measurer, the cutter
and I, my back turned to them - a blind eye,
trying to locate the place where fate enters life -
like an arrow wounding the soft flesh of time;
this is the beginning of all things: fate and necessity -
inseparable cohesion; there’s also the voyage
towards the loftier shores: perfection, order -
maybe just an imaginary adventure of discovery and knowledge
or a sign of hubris - the noble heroic striving
to defy a dark god who prefers us wingless
and fearful of the inevitability of a tragic end…
falling deeper and deeper
into the black silence;
counting the stars -
milestones of loss,
constellations of mourning;
never-ending fall -
of a dying planet
on the edge of the galaxy of pain…
I close my eyes and imagine
my true face in the soul’s mirror:
I see a gentle animal,
resigned to its fate.