Noon
The sound of scissors colliding,
Cut strands of hair
Fall upright in stiff postures.
When the pelting yesterdays pile up like a lake,
Dawn
Flows fiercely along the path laid by shadows,
Soaking the marble floor black.
Scaling the walls,
The flooding existential being
Sinks before the coldly hanging
Wall clock,
When the hands strike noon.
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A twilight that can be no one’s path twists in two, sprouting sharp leaves that generously embrace the corners of the room and the fallen things, filling the room with the scent of shadows, and outside the window, stagnant death pours out an unending moment, and tomorrow, which can never be eternal for even a single moment, and today, which can never be a moment forever, tremble as they sink into the depths of tedious oblivion, and then
The sound of two shadows crossing,
A severed head
Falls like the face of a second hand.
As the misty horizon
Turns crimson,
A memory,
Whose seed no one knows,
Echoes in the empty room.
Over the darkened evening,
Again,
A head begins to grow.
