No dogs bark at this hour,
Desolate, an abandoned field burnt by the sun,
Dry shaving curls on a workshop floor long unswept.
Harsher than sawing wood, a motorcycle
Rips along a distant road, popping
Explosions in small packets sputtering
Bits of shrapnel, broken teeth,
Busted rivets, chopped up brittle, pits, tracers, short-lived sparks.
Slowly silence thickens, concrete putty sealing joints and crevices
Of a room deafening to the slightest vibration,
Hardening gradually, spiral candy.
The world is asleep, I am awake.
Passing time heaves, a resting animal.
Dimly, a behemoth of swarming thoughts like fireflies drifts past.
I wait steadfastly, a metal tool seeking the warm grasp of a skillful hand.
Now is the moment to enter into stillness
Deep as cloisters enfolding underground rivers,
Delicate as a tissue by the slightest cough perforated.
Before the smallest particle of noise tears like flint into gossamer darkness,
I will take long draughts, cupping my hands descending as birds into the springs of tranquility.
Gonzalinho da Costa
A shorter version of this poem was originally published at This Dark Matter.
Gonzalinho da Costa—a pen name—teaches at the Ateneo Graduate School of Business, Makati City, Philippines. He is a management research and communication consultant. A lover of world literature, he has completed three humanities degrees and writes poetry as a hobby.
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