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made through silent alchemy
with ashes and methane, snow and mud,
in the chill of colours on the horizon;
it’s the time of the day without words
without a name for its secret,
or to say where it happens:
these are the painful truths of sunrise,
the steep races of half-sleep;
the dream of tainted twilights
falls from the obscure peaks of the cosmos.
Under a barred sky of nameless anthracite,
auto-da-fé of gigantic nothing,
all the knights of Scorpio,
poisoning the years and the days,
come from Rigel’s splendour:
seven stars of prey in a crown
and fear with trembling arms
tears up the street of fast screams,
dragging the wakes of screeching silence;
death is lying in wait in the grim,
ferocious November midnights,
shiny and sparkling with frost,
with a hundred faces hatred comes forth
and all equally made of stone:
infantile shivers are not enough,
to keep them at bay.