The Map of a Mirage
The streets, the houses & the books,
the possessed rooms, the inviolate joy
that inhabits gardens. Climate change,
the enigma burning on the wall
like a hunting trophy.
All this, nothing more than a blink, a mirage.
A foggy carnival, a congregation of elves,
the light sleep of an ascetic in the desert.
The clocks have a mocking air about them here,
the almanacs are true satires, doors & windows
close & open on the most confusing landfill.
Remoteness, a sonata to the ears.
Ah, the dream of the encounter was so short.
What are these trifle thoughts against eternity?