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The cat’s slumber

Out of the mist
words flew
to dwell in my dream,
echoes of a distant spring,
out of copper wires
the past made contemporary,
the dead made alive.
No pain nor regret shaded
the cats’ slumber as they wriggled
out of their one-eyed sleep, unsettled
by my contained calm, barely.

Cracks in time’s abyss
reveal bitter crimson underneath,
nascent shoots booted, silent cries
on damned dawns, the rut of fear.

Raw words, stark memories,
forgotten voices, inquisitive,

through my skin
another language
they speak

a language of despair,
a language of desire,

un lenguaje de nostalgia,
un lenguaje de olvidadas palabras,

a language of revenge

that I no longer speak.

© Pablo Luis González, April/May 2007