I try to read the words from their motionless lips.

In the past they would appear
from the foliage of unknown.
Now they would come before
the first ring of bells,
across barren yards:
madmen, poets, alcoholic saints;
they would show up
in night’s trapeze reflections.

As if, through their veins rivers thunder,
in their eyes lakes flash,
yet they bleed by their eyes!

Time limps behind this graveyard
it stays transfixed
in the plow of nothingness,
yet it is covered by an endless sky.

A sky that is pregnant,
a sky that needs water to dry,
a sky that rises to fall on itself.

I stay as a massive, soundless scream
above the millions heaped and buried
reading the words from their motionless eyes.