Across the face of the moon
A memory, an apocalypse, flickers.
Dark eyes glitter like craters
From the dried up lake of dreams.
When the dry season is here,
My mind is emptied of desire.
My body filled only
With the throb of a beating heart.
Surely there is an end of striving,
When life is dried up and shriven
And the soul pulsing quietly
Towards the dying stars.
Written on a clear night in January when the moonlight illuminated the shapes of faces and past memories in the trees. Where on earth are we going to and why?