Can they be louder with their rushing
Now when he comes
Like a memory
Smiling, benevolent, pathetic.
His words turn languorous,
Succumbing to a reality,
Which bothers him.
So he stays, to sing her a lullaby
In images, art and bodies.
She gets tired,
So she weeps and slumber engulfs her being.
But she wakes up to memories again;
Poised like a Grecian sculpture in a pristine space,
Embracing her through soft scratches.
The night does to her what she asks:
Opening passages to silent hills,
Where he still recites his delicate poesy,
Asking her to wake up.