There are
moments
when the earth
shakes likes ripples of myth

and the epic
begins
when a fallen
brown leaf
slowly returns
to its green nascent
breath

we leave in every nook
a morning of sighs
and the little signs
of a bygone nostalgia

because all attempts
fall into the crevice
of yesterday

and the dripping minute
serves as an eternity
for the drunks
with whom I share
my nights in delirium
within the occult temple
of a bar.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry