In the pocket of the evening, language floats a cosmic virus
In the pocket of the evening, language floats – a cosmic virus,
Its seeds unknown, brought on the wings of silent comets.
It clings to people as the light of stars to the night-time tree crowns,
Whirling miniature orbits in a mute dance, under the vault that hosts wandering thoughts.
Man, his bits and pixels once scattered through the universe,
A living artifact, forged for leaps among distant galaxies.
We played with atoms and stars, our hands sketching in the black void,
The ancestral dial of journeys through chambers of dreamlike air and dark matter.
Each word, a vessel poised for launch, thought the pilot, a pioneer in the vast sky,
Words – echoes of a music lost in space, harmonies traversing unheard.
We feel thousands of ancient voices passing through the thin veil of time,
Crossing constellations of signs, cartographies marking the other births and deaths.
We forget we are earthlings, born of the star reaper, dust twinned with infinity,
Flattering the sky with our vocabulary, inhaling the void like wine,
Hungry for knowledge, we seek the germs that will elevate us,
Words – tender viruses colonizing our heart, contaminating our being with a longing to fly.
Every phrase, a robotic extension, the precise instrument with which we caress horizons,
Language leads us through black deserts, leaves luminescent traces on the paths of darkness.
We are testimony to the mysterious origins, dream beings with star-filled gazes,
Architects in the zodiac of words, we'll traverse the void closely – the archive of shadows – and one day we'll wake up floating, free.
Until then, we infect the cosmos with our whispered history,
A narrative of forces drawing us toward other worlds, trying to hear their grandeur,
Man – an astronaut of his own adventure, a fragment of the mystery still calling him,
And like poets in their eternity, they translate thousands of stories, writing with their frostbitten fingers in the vast books of space.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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