Dream inscribes its letters, secretly,
In dawn’s safe archives,
In invisible ink...
The darkest blood survives to birth
Orchids of revolutions on the pages,
Or the bubbling of cadence in gardens
Of wounds that never heal...
I can see better with eyes closed,
As the phrases drill through time,
Waiting at the end of the tunnel...
The endless inkwell of transfigurations
Walk through the corridors of echoes,
Past broken limbs of time.
In this desolation
I see people falling on themselves,
In sleep with eyes wide open,
Falling without moving.
A sleep, a falling with no return—
A descent towards a space with no datum.
Waiting inside the tunnel—
Even the blind can see the shape of wind,
The deaf dance in the spiral stairway of dream.