Useless have been my efforts to find my image's reflections; they're buried in these ancient pupils that in former times cast their grim looks upon me, hiding the light from the souls that, with heavy hearts, gave up their stars.
Everything in this park is made out of ivory, everything is lifeless. From the trees only the sap is flowing through the flowers' cracked petals —like a sneeze of dark sparks— searching for the spring that once more, brought it alive. But it's a pity that the spring itself is carved in ivory, like every being in this park.
They're on the benches, at the foot of the trees —static along the endless paths. In the gardens and beside the fountains there are men and women indifferent to each other, just like the columns of an ancient temple devoted to gods forgotten by their own minds. Only their pupils show to be alive, but only darkness is reflected from them.
Above us, the full moon exhales its silver breath wrapped in the nothingness' whispers —it flows like a bubble among the rigid foliage of the trees and blows out, pinched by my fearful thoughts, scatting its light over the landscape. All this have been carved by the fates that tried to tame my silence by means of these beings. They're the same that in other times use to offer along with me their hopes to the deamons captivated in the crowd.
My body's reflections ran away —lured by their looks— till the very bottom of their enchained souls. The old scenes I starred before their pupils, are captivated in the same instant —but now the darkness blinds them, and so, they're unable to find the way back to my memories. My mind feels a chill whenever try to take back those moments where only the ghosts dwell, slipping ad infinitum over the edge the knife thirsty of innocent blood. I myself am a ghost, drowned in the frozen meditations of the shadows.
The children around the fountains keep on playing in their imaginations —beyond their stony movements forged by the ivory's indolence. Only their pupils shine... but that light blinds. The bats' fly got suspended just in the moment in which their formation shaped the last profile of my image. An ivory's feather got into me through the tunnels built up by the pain. The light is never found at the end of each one of them. Only ivory's pupils, reflecting the darkness that shelter me.
My body stands still right now, while my soul flees toward the inner shadows carving the ivory that coats me. There're imprisoned images inside me —their colors are the fire that protect me from the ivory's coolness. I'm—just as the others beings in this park— an ivory's sculpture. Living in dark inner paradises, doomed to behold the real reflections of false lives. Our being has found itself in the darkness: she's quiet, perfect for thoughtful souls —tired by the excite movement of the light... End of the trip.
The End
•Note: This prose poem belongs to the unpublished book: "Bottomless Tombs."
