At what point exactly
does History grayscale?
As it undoes itself ( not
the way my grandpa
rolls out a yarn, thread by thread )
on reflective glass:
leaf by leaf, drained of
colour, traversing ochre twilight
at dusk between
stars, who
with celestial impatience
wedge the moon to its edge and
after an eternity really
in a prelapsarian longing
centuries anachronistically
dim into one place
by the clatter of chains—
held fast by the hands of time.
The dawn descends upon
us in a frenzied calm
when the zephyr turns to stone
by canopies of silent birdsong:
to behold lilacs
blooming in cold blood
and then… silence
chiselled onto our hearts
like worms
that eat apples, raw.
We see ghosts
emerging from their ruins
in the womb of the earth
as if out of thin air
concealing memories in shards
lost in time's lullaby to
a nightmarish silence,
stunned to oblivion,
tongues cut in half
to ask the promised questions:
“Who would awaken us to life,
if not for rain?”
“Where is he, in whose hands
rests our fate,
like a child, asleep?”
They can barely whisper
of death
staring into their faces
like a stoic grim reaper,
of bleak shadows and desiccated dreams
like Quinces decayed in clusters.
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