THE WORDS' GRAVE

THE WORDS' GRAVE

In the cage of the sleeplessness, the nights never breath the same way. Even if the summers’ crickets and the winters’ harsh winds are the same, the nights’ song is always new. Nothing is repeating identically, not even the rare, monotonous tick of the clock, as a sleeping heart carrying along the sleepy blood of the night. The only noise that seem to be always the same is the one that sounds as a smothered sigh. One could say the emprisoned soul is mourning, of someone that would have been buried alive in the walls. But it is only the restless grave of the words.
The words have been condemned to death one winter night. And since they have not been allowed to be spoken anymore, they have snowed over the bloodless lips, burdening them with a painful silence. And if they sometimes dare to cry the sadness of being killed too early, this happens only at night when there is no one around to hear their sigh with an echo of sea waves and sad distant strings. And when the dawn comes, they stop again as if they have never spoken, wrapping me in their silent network that grows heavier day by day.

...and I will die the day when I can’t be seen anymore through their thick mist, useless silk worm in the dough of the unspoken words.

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