Translated for tomorrow

Who else can paint the crumbling walls of my tomorrows in barren rainbow colours?! In place of the cloud giants on my sinking, dented skies, when can One-eyed sunshine smile again? When will my creaking stick-words of Sehonna be listened to, and understand what it means to survive or let live?!

What lady I look upon, let me not see a grimace of grimace, but a crocodile's face of relief. In the pale moonlit court of lantern-lights should be gathered round the faithful witnesses, like modern-day heralds.

They point at my heart and demand an account of my every wandering minute. I wonder what strange secrets I might know?   They'd use me as a festering leech, so that I'd be a sham, a cheat, a liar, till my sickly throat was dry.

The face of a child-eyed sweetheart would smile at me from my distant future, and a thousand times I curse the day she did not sit by me. Now my thirty-seventh prodigal year clatters like a vulture above me: I should wait patiently for the wing-beat of the resurrected minutes. My shadow, my shipwrecked life, has long since turned back, for suicide's temptation has impaled me as prey in the old crossroads of ladders.

In my pounding veins one can trace the silenced murmurings, and feel them to one who is patient and accepting. In the suffocating, partial heap of my perceptions, the inexorable time of the executioner stops like a dissection. - Intention, the love not found, will become a dormant silence in me, while the ant-eyes on the creative table gently drum.