Dead-ends

What can a star do, if the sun only shines for the moon and moon alone? What can a writer write, if he is the stranger in his own story, his own book and his own life? What can the Just decide, when he is the witness, he is the victim and he is the convict? What can the worshiper ask for, when his God is stone, when his God is lost, when his God is gone? And How do you love? When, what draws you towards a person is the magnetism of his love for another?

“Burn the gardens of roses red

and tear the pages of books that talk

rip open the sky that thunders and rains

And scream to the heavens until they fall

Snatch the words away from a writer.

Pull out the eyes of the one who paints.

Cut the feet of the joyous dancer.

Slit the tongue of the nightingale…

Rob the butterfly off its wings

and leave the darkness on the hills

tie the mouth of oceans wide

and let the thirst burn itself

Moan the death of the living gone

Live the life of the walking dead

Rip worthless heart out of the chest

And throw it down the deepest vale”

The pieces of you, each and every one of the scattered remains speaks its own language, retains its own memory, they cry, they moan and sob till the night is day and day is night and night is day again. The clocks die, the rhythms stop, a day comes, a night goes but time, the ferocious cruel enemy, it stands frozen...
it stands still,
mute,
motionless......
and lost at a dead-end!