There is a night room –
Stillness and blue voices of falling water –
A garden outside a reflex of dreams.
Red forests walked before morning
And grackles became gargoyles
Along darkened rooftops.
There is a night room,
Where oceans speak
In whispered resignation of lost lives –
Wave after wave of silvered talismans protecting nothing.
Out in locked memorial grounds,
Stone angels crouched in alcoves,
Waiting for the return of all our small hours.
From a first winter night,
There were no lights at the shuttered church –
Colors began to fail:
Like Pythagoras approaching the underworld –
Like Mary waiting in the night room –
Like a stillness of suffocated speech,
Where we drown in a red forest of submerged stars.
Everything was moving further apart –
There was light coming along the rooftops,
But it was not morning –
It was a reflex of surrendered dreams –
It was a premonition of too many worlds,
And chimera that we had more time left.
There is a night room –
A garden outside a reflex of dreams –
Lost lives waiting for the return of all our small hours.