WAITING FOR A TRAIN IN PALMIRA
I have waited for a train without the ticket to leave.
At the station in PalmiraA lyric ran down my heart.
Shall I always liveThe new moon of celebrationsCaressing motes of angelsShattered at my feet.
Ambrosia and spikenardGrab this ropeTurned off over timeTrembling, wheezing.
I am waiting for a train without a ticket at a station which is not Palmira.
The idea remainsGenuflectedTo the shining etherWhere nothingness appears strippedSo that without wordsI could defineThe essence of this rose.
In truth, there is no station and there are no trains today at my door: Palmira does not exist.
Everything is swarming againOn the mirror of this world:
Ruined citiesSnails climbing on the wallsMajestic treesBlissful moments of stillnessGlimpses of colourful butterfliesWishes lulled in the fireplaceTired souls and all the rest.
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