Our primitive hours.

Who could decipher this silent night?
her numbered stars brilliant and secret
the monotonous sweetness, her unique color
the vast, absolute borderless hieroglyphical
glow of her, an eternal and mystical monument,

Peaceful night always caught between air and death.
Peaceful night, energy torrents of light flowing
over rocks emanating her cold and sad perfumes
of existence and, us, in our cellared earth, parting
pale and grave, souls of days and their spirits

Our primitive hours serving as distant reminders
to our worried desires so defiant in daylight;
In the day we are pensive even solemn, but it’s
grave and glorious night where the scented spaces
swirl around us, and I want to trace my name
on your white stele and meditate upon you
inside the frozen heart of night.

©Ionwhite

Image result for belle epoque art movement

8 thoughts on “Our primitive hours.”

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