"Pink sand" [poetry]

Pink sand

By: @seifiro

Streets full of screams,
smell of poverty and prostitution,
but above all to weakness and defeat.
A defeated demon and a tired crowd
they have in common that everything robs their attention
of all, except for the mountain
of ancients corpses under their feets.
Streets swollen like rotten and forgotten bodies,
tragedy above tragedy.

Sudden rain.
Men and women buried under the ground and water,
the flowers trying to breathebeneathh
hoping to see the sun for the last time,
whose light still wrapped by that alien sky
contaminated by the greatness of the humanity.

There is a person metamorphosing
indefinitely throughout his life
between delusions desperation;
the arrival of the menacing rats,
the omen of them opens the way to new forms:
dreams and finally death
The definitive rest of the history of house man.
So a person.
So each and every one of them.
The human synecdoche,
one is the abstract and the others are the absolute,
and vice versa.

Memories carved on photo paper
they remember in some way the condition of the stars
and the immensity of the cosmos.
a nonsense the work of the watchmaker
that realizes that time is relative.
All these things are mixed
because time,
light and photography works in the same way.
The light of the stars of today,
they are the photograph of what it was.
The cosmos is like an infinite graveyard,
a work of art painted with light
and whose artist is the same time.

A determinism.
The pink sand under my feet
is pink sand now
and in the future a pink castle made of glass.
All its forms, past and present, were in it
since the beginning,
impossible that it was otherwise.
Is it straight the time itself?
Or is the time, perhaps, an infinite garden with infinite bifurcations?

.

Thank you for reading!

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