Theoria 8

 
Eyes: which blink
cold beyond the glacial

cold
ice-cold and slow.

Slow as the crushing turns
through the empty aeons of space

made by the earth on its frozen axis
before the advent of the human race.

Life's petrifaction,
the guard's frozen effigy,

the hymn,
the verb sears your skin.

At least, in the Siberian night,
the stars

will kindle your heart
with their prehistoric light.

The ice cold plumes of your voice
rose as the galaxies fathomed their distances

hurtling apart, light years from man,
and the life spark of creation.

Do they hear our cries, out there, in the cosmos?
It's surely our silences which most haunt the universe.





Note

This poem is dedicated to the memory of Osip Mandelshtam, (1891- 1938).