From Stellar Ephemerides

What’s the point of posing
as hero, when all the joys
need sorrows, like arrows

pointed with poison flying
in all directions or none
at all, for wine’s sake?

To heal oneself from pain
of others becomes unfair:
to shed blood without cause,

from a man never thought
could kill. The power to heal
becomes futile, pointless.

In the end he just takes
the olive wreath to his head
to the ground, the funeral

of an immortal creature,
then embedded to the sky,
never an enough consolation.

Both bowed to this death,
a line draws in tense
pain in their abdomens.

Pointing their gazes upward:
one must leave the stage,
one must live forever.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s