Three Paths Carved

1) Present

This is not the end, because I chose to.





And if the tombs of ancient foretellers reverberate in scorn of the choices that were made

(because, after all, they forged the hill that marked the start.
They deserve to know even after death)

And if the birds of field no longer humble themselves down,
if the water of the well decides not to hand itself over,

If grass turns a shade of orange,
if machines stop obeying,

If dark grey clouds decide to never let rain fall,
and the sun chooses to swallow nickel, for a change,

If earth itself decides to lose its shape
and nature decides to shut down:

Only then, I will know that time is precise, because I will not be outside until earth is too.



2) Past

There indeed was a time in which I would shake my fingers, just to make sure they responded,
and there were five fingers alright, and five knuckles, which danced.

And then, I would say: when my thighs weaken
I will rip myself open, with the help of the continents, but only the ones that feed on dirt, mildew, and moist, and save arms, legs and shoulders.

And I had a tendency to gobble your eyes everytime,
and their blindness, their chasteness
revolved, like an army of prideful auras, blinking.

But the canyon of your face
Flared, and died out.

Repeatedly.






Sometimes, I would think I needed to summon the sun,
for it to measure us both.

I still do.





3) Future

Plants grow yet they're vulnerable and weak and tender,
which is not how they're supposed to be,

still,

in the same form

of growth

I shall learn,

and I will call out nature and those creatures that are kept inside the tombs,
seeking comfort.


The chances we once embraced have vanished away,

still, chances of a far encounter suddenly appear,
of a very, very far one.

which makes me declare:


I can already tell how it will be.

And when it does happen,
I will make sure
to hug


air.


Despite lack of.