by Fabrice Poussin
The bow, blue, has gathered the flakes of ages;
Restless below a birth anxious to be, shivers,
abandoned behind the old encyclopedia.
The recipient invited to the celebration absent,
the gift remains uncovered, secret, weakening;
The doors to the fortress have been welded shut.
A babe almost a carrion begins to decompose;
In a solitude unplanned at the bottom of the box;
Walls close in on the wishes of an existence forlorn.
As if with eyes, heart, soul, vaguely shaped seem to
look up; wondering what tears could be, pleading,
hoping to discover the power of sounds and words.
Yet the only sense is that of mold in a damp room;
No bones to ache, no skin to crack, just a soul confused,
vaporous, electrified, shocked with the pain of abandonment.
So many faces of the sun have gone by, and as many moons;
Silence remains, it is icy cold in the house of loneliness;
For now, she has not yet come for her gift.
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