Verses of a night

It is night now...

I dare to say it,

This is important.

The door is open

Without room, without hinges,

I shelter in its mist

I sink in it.

A silent pact

Rocking in time

Of old wakeful nights,

Of nights without dream,

Of rainy afternoons,

Of iced mists.

I talk to you and you get it,

Silence listens my voice.

I don't bewilder the calm

Of your black cloak,

I just move hands

That build verses.

Hands that have dreamt

Open windows,

Black mirrors,

Deserted spaces,

Waves without beaches,

Woods of a winter

Of frozen branches

Covered with snow

Made from moss and ferns.

Hands that have had

Pressure in their fingers,

Feeling another body

Shake in the wind.

Today they are old branches

Of an oak-tree without foliage.

She reads and thinks,

It is his right.

She reads and thinks

And pushes my dream.

It obliges me to stand up,

I keep quiet and nod.

Behind what is dark,

Without room nor breeze.

The image dies,

Everything lulls,

My fire extinguishes...

Today the night tells me,

Words without owner.

It obliges me to stand up

I keep quiet and nod.

Now it is whispering,

Covering me with its arms,

It cradles me, it breezes me,

I fall asleep in its lap.

There won't be more mornings...

Slowly... slowly...

Silence... silence...

The poet has died.

Azpeitia, José Antonio, born in San Sebastián, Spain, is a economist. Having won the Premio Literario del Club Guipúzcoa de San Sebastián, he collaborates with many poetry magazines and some web pages.

Arts and expression + Poetry