ARTpresszó - művészeti portál - versek, irodalom, próza

he steps off the highway, he leaves his old bike
in the rays of the dawn on a moonlit night
the road ended here and the hill leads up high
to an endless field with rippling cornwaves afar

the Wallaby Track is his last trip ahead
as the wind whispers, a nod of a head
shadows walz, crickets drum on his head
a church fades away, last moan of the dead

a tired pilgrim gets up on the hill
he puts down his backpack, no sound, no peril
he sits in the grass, drinks a bottle of wine
smokes a last cigar and he stops the time

with a snap of his fingers and everything stands
as if it were thousand years in essence
he gets off his clothes and he gets off his heart
a cynical smile in an asylum's ward

he picks up a flower which is glooming white
he looks at it, let it go, watch it fall down
he reaches the moon and an old song is sang
and as it starts raining, he waves his hand

he thanks the cool breeze and he thanks the cruel stars
he thanks the foolish and he thanks the harsh
he thanks the symphony that's never complete
he thanks the longing rails that never meet

he lights out his cigar, he takes one more step
as yesterday and the day after it wed
he's feeling light, as the dark night still cries
he puts down his booklet, his verbs and his nouns

he stands still, facing the snickering sky,
he doesn't ask how, he doesn't ask why
he mutters his last words “for the day I met you”
and now he just stands, he stands like a statue

he stands on the endless field, the moon up and high
he lets the rain smooth his face, lifts up his arms
the world is still kicking, and no one is harmed
he stands on the world's edge, naked and unarmed

an endless shiver hangs still in the still life,
the death of a child, weary blood on a knife:
the roads led nowhere but he dreams as he dies
a cloistered echo under the crimson skies