WITH WHAT?
With what do words lose color,
when the bell’s voice measures morning,
when some awakening is betrayed for gain
and inscribed
into the flow of breath,
perhaps—perfectly, without haste?
With what was squandered the strike
by which the heart abruptly skipped,
by which from all of it too little came to be,
and called
into the shapelessness of impulses—
no, not with a single tremor of the air?
With what does falsehood edge toward truth?
Perhaps by the sense of time, its hurried passing.
Perhaps by lies whispered into an echo.
And the price
is in a long, unbroken helplessness,
and—the hollow weight of circumstance.
With what did sweetness turn to bitter,
and dissolve a tear into memory,
and wash away all desires, all traces,
and moments...
Even the dream was altered by reality,
by all—made void,
with finality.
Author: Veron
