Trafika Europe 4 - Armenian Rhapsody

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.

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