Poetry

While going my way, searching an eternal flame 
I confront an extraordinary trauma, 
God does not live, but dies in me daily. 


There was green pain in this condemned strangeness 
as the young world moves on 
dancing with joy. 
It was not a coincidence 
that intellectual anesthesia 
was not able to bring good sleep. 


So much passes by your city 
existential traffic, soaring above arguments, 
but a chilled, far away voice 
defends the crumbling palace of syntax. 


The masks are crying from the split walls 
languishing in the hopeless garden. 
Wherever you go, the windows are closed 
and the smoke rings 
rising from the chimneys of dirty homes.