Poetry

The traveler sleeps in a sepulcher,
endlessly, timelessly,
where no ray of light enters.
Like the death has stopped
moving, for a moment
to celebrate the close of the journey.

Indeed? Is it the edge of yearning?
I no longer belong to any one,
to any universe. Come a long way
walking barefoot on hot sands
of life where no footprints exist.

Do not go for my vision. Find
your own path. In yellowish- brown
eroded silica, ripened in sun,
I have left my eyes. The moon
will tell the tale of my Olympian
failures.