They arose from those who had not lived longer,
Now, silent ghosts dressed in dawn's pale hunger.
No! No excuse to become a shelf skull,
For memory hums where living hearts once endured full.
In delicate porcelain, the fragrant tea
Infused a daydream sea and sense of reality.
Land ahoy! Steaming new world, like thought,
Pretends to be the knowledge never brought.
Of Snowhite lakes of petals, and red rivers,
Like pure blood spilled by dream flowers' spears,
Resurrected minds and bodies ache softly in mirrors,
Reflecting the weight of neverseen years.
Poet! "Hold thy tongue, or engrave thy name
In your lonely grave!" You're free!
No more wounds to each sleeping flame
That the old time itself enslaved. See!
Ancient days just came again, not only to pass.
A new century uncurses the urge of salvation,
Yet whispering shadows through hourglass-glass
Try to capture phoenix pilgrims' devotion.
I do not want to come back! Take fast my breath!
Thousand written-opus come from the wise.
Moon seekers on a monument of hope
Sing in shiny robes. Their words arise
As a dawn reborn beyond heaven's scope.
I am the Kurytyban echo of all undone,
The far trembling hush between death and sun!
