Cycle in Verses

If lexicons were empty, without spelling,

and the phonemes did not pulsate in our teeth,

what epic would we write together?

If smell did not moisten the palate,

spring would be iris without pigment,

and autumn, a sigh without portent.

The winter dawns, serene despots,

caress the epidermis with lascivious mists,

while Cronus, goldsmith of the ages,

forges rings of ages in gold and mist.

We are calamus and vulva, stanza and heat,

dancing to the choreography of the stars.

In the future, we will be absolute rulers,

dictating the compasses of the future,

each gesture - a premeditated quarter note

on the agenda of the path.

We will dance over the dawns,

while the rhapsody of existence

(volition tissue and arteries)

consecrates us monarchs of infinity.

We are already laureates:

at daybreak, we inherited the papyrus

where we inscribe, with semen and purple,

the verse that gave birth to us.

Because waking up is the first act

of the eternal beginning.

DBara Arruda