The Lighthouse

[ I know nothing of truth
And in order to live,
I could not believe in everything ]


Rays of a cold sun in January,
Leveling on birdless canopies
On the vast stretch of white snow
Lying so indifferently
To the branches that collapse by its weigh

Winds of a loveless sky,
Carrying all the meaninglessness in the things we say,
A gentle breeze,
Filled with lies that are always meant to be comforting

Catacomb whispers,
Inundating our souls –
With echoes of an eternally sad remembrance
Dreaming languidly within a transparent slumber
In illusive arches of consciousness
In the grasp of delayed time

- We dream how we live -
Seems to be expressed in the delicate textures of sleep
Adding truth to the quiet
Never knowing –
If there’s a bigger world outside or inside our minds

Waves of a carnivorous ocean,
Sweeping to the shore remnants of men –
Who took a look at the horizon
And truly made it the end

Light of a most pensive moon,
Illuminating us in the darkest hours
When our tears gently descend-
On the curvatures of a pillow
When on our knees we pray
With pain in our murmurs
Wishing God could be crying next to us
But only the evening knows our suffering
Making the sorrow beautiful and so true

True like those moments of frightening lucidness
Where our existence feels too real-
Against the emptiness that surrounds us

True like the feeling of a sincere goodbye,
Fleeting and plentiful,
Expanding beyond our senses
And into the silence of the stars

True like our most hurtful disillusions,
Dissolving itself into every stream of our bodies,
And throughout all the weightlessness of our spirits...

Copyright © Juan Antonìo Thomas, 2005