At the shores of a formless boundary
where water cleanses the bodies of the lost
and the stones are bleached under three wandering suns
parched by merciless thirst
drags itself through scorching sands
looking for a nexus
where time and blood collide
so I can crawl back to the womb of night
and be remade in its image.
To be a vast firmament
devoid of the shackles of man and its tongues
free from corporeal burden
eternal, star-stricken and scarred by blades of aurora.
To be cartographies of dead light
a library of echoes,
to be a place
a sanctum for lovers
to be the watcher of a thousand oaths
to be the stillness that seizes the soul.
My tongue cracks in a thousand places
and this heavenly fire
yanks me from the hallucinatory grip of desire
so that I can be another pot in its kiln,
an amphora filled with dust
as hollow as it is useless.