Si vis pacem, para bellum
Every poem must start with some kind of weather
report. It is winter
and the white cocaine of the clouds was on your
eyebrows. No wind, no light, I am the last
flower in your rib cage, blooming with no time
You are putting your skin to the ground,
layer after layer. Dark sun shining upon dark clouds.
The butterfly of our youth jots a note on your skull:
We are here just for a tiny moment.
Everything is holy, holy, holy and decaying. The door leading outside is
a trap. The dark inside is falling like a guillotine.
And the sons march, they march towards freedom –
"Come back with your shield - or on it"
And I will go now. Look for me in the skies or
in the eyes of the river. Time has nothing on us.