My Ilion

Poetry

Photo by Jeremy Bezanger on Unsplash

My world, my city,
my Ilion.
You are dead.
Desolate memory,
Too late to weep.
Only dust and mountains…
Like a moan.
And me?…
I have a dream
about how the wine flows,
how the sky is full of life,
and how the laughter sparkles,
and how a son is kissed.
But on my fingers
Only salt.
Well… There is no end to a thread,
And there is no buying of the
absolution
by the waiting.
But damned be the pain
Which follow man
who dares to live
with a single moment,
I pray, let him
I pray you, let him be me,
For eternal at this moment
my glorious city,
my world,
my Ilion.