Violet Skies

Violet Skies

A lion, a rampant feline, wounded, limping, stalking the night,
makes me think of sounds from beyond the grave,
(echoing in my ears and chest)
In the distance, a cemetery calls to fear.

From that same darkness, a tree grows and survives,
like a sharp tip of life sprouting from the earth,
as a perennial spring bursts forth
at the summit of the mountain range.

From this well of life, a cub, dazzled by the new world,
emerges from the depths of its mother,
driven by power to quench its thirst.

Light and airy, a floating feather fades into an icy breeze,
an incomparable gift bestowed by a fragile wind,
as delicate as cut glass goblets.
Near and far, a dream emanates from the drowsy earth,
reflected in a jar with a bundle of clay on my windowsill.

Within this living dream, a pacemaker of time
emits a constant, low hum
as blood flows, forging its path through the body's rivers
and crossing a heart of steadfast beats.

Bright lights rise beneath the tent of this circus we call life,
where contortionists, jugglers, and trapeze artists perform their spectacle,
balancing on the extended line of time and history,
with mind and heart harmoniously aligned.

Outside, the pines dance to the rhythm marked by the wind,
sharing whispered secrets as ancient as the vital air.
A passionate fire, swaying to a different cadence,
controls the intense flames like a puppeteer behind the scenes,
like weaving pearls into a necklace of fleeting lights.

As the branches burn, entire constellations align.

Life persists within nature's fleeting, pure breath,
renewing itself through a fiery death.

And so, the bird, fleeing, carving its path;
ascends in flight, breaking free from the bonds
of the ephemeral and earthly,
at the sepulchral hour where Violet Skies hold the night.

Miguel Cano C.