OF THE WORK OF A TIME […or memory shock]

...sometimes, he enters the heart for a while with viciousness and living axes and camps in it,
without mercy he splits it and dislodges it, throws it in a landfill and there curses it,
she crushes it with contempt and spits it out and then leaves;
…and with the heart strained, with the blood attacked and the birds pecking at the rust
where the being was lit,
there is no requirement to live, because then no one will doubt that he has died
and that - like sowings of salt and sand - even thistles, mosses and herbs begin to grow,
no one, no one because the wind is beginning to howl and leave verdigris on his bones,
unmistakable signs with which he scrutinizes and fills its interstices with solitude;
... therefore, when at the height of a brutal moment, a rose is born in someone,
tends to ignore that it is where it is born,
for he will swear and perjure that his blood infects him and his being ravaged do not exist,
that light and time are gone and his war axes can no longer hurt him,
Well, in the strict nothingness of it,
He will tend to believe that his stone hands will no longer be able to lift life.
of the pleasant embers of the heart;
…and, still, still and so,
In his eagerness to recover his heartbeat, he will stir, cry, implore and scream,
more full of pain, like a god in a desolate sun, he will resort to memory,
but this one, from that enormous abandonment,
It will come carried by an implacable sea of unspeakable pain and sadness:
Indolent and damaged, she does not remember the roses.
***
Antonio Justerl/Orion of Panthoseas.
https://oriondepanthoseas.com
***