The Hour

It should have been the hour, at this hour, it should have been
As at the one before, not so long ago
There are no more hours to come

One after the other heretofore dissolved in the mired water of enforcements
It was the hour before
The one when had to be snatched with wet palms in the comfort of finally closed tasks
The offsprings of afflictions tied to the wrists like bitches

Lastly, lastly swallowed up in the viscera
Lastly the hour of slow tastings and looks at the vanishing muscled shadows of trials
It was there, at hand of will, a moment of grace ripped from the unruffled constancy of malignancies

That hour after hour takes the not much visible curve of a destiny
It was there, and present as the finish burning line of a race that depleted the past decades
There was in each stride the idea of its own end
The certainty of  ennobling the abject and extracting from it its auric magnitude
It was the hour a long time ago, and I still await
Convinced by the distant deadened sounds of peace and daydreams
That to life is the sentence to confinement

Mute battles and endeavors, obstinate labour, crusades in the dark to reach out of date ideals
Extirpation of patience up to the infinite
Have had as reverberation
Only the saltpeter quivering on the walls of an opaque incarceration
From where continuously drops down no more than a bottomless sadness
Straying too, in the not much talkative emptiness of fatal riddles.

May 2015