at the quiet bottom
of the lonesome mountain,
dropped from the wings
of the gentle breeze,
a barn owl’s hoot
stabs the thick darkness
right through its heart
the way a sharp lightening
hits the frozen ground
in the late of autumn.
unheard infant’s shrieks,
all numbed and forgotten,
haunt the whereabouts
of the missing hound
lured by scents of blood
from the greenwood sight
vanished like a cloud
when the storm is done
no trace to be found,
never found alive
later than his wanderings.
from a safe distance,
the moon-howling echoes
give a piercing notice
of the new life’s courses
secretly bestowing
the surmised return
of the sleepless hunter
with a deadly thirst
from his awful curses.
in front of his temples
seduced by his flare
the two rowing columns
of young, silent pines
lean down, one-by-one
in a pitch-black courtesy
with the pristine heath
following behind him.
the long pebble trail,
overgrown and cold,
covered in his scent
and the pine needles
urge my hasty steps
to the same old place
of no real escape
and decrepit home
to the savage folks
who had their own souls
forever estranged.
what is more, once more,
he’ll refuse to grow old
and from time to time,
dry cries will be born
in his Carpathian castle,
summoned by the flesh,
induced by flash floods.
hereby, at his doorstep,
his long-denied burning,
all his broken trust,
wicked games of lust,
caged inside this fortress,
the pretend death coffin,
whose transparent vault
both quenches and chains
my loyal persistence
with the fatal promise
of eternal love,
are fully accepted.
any day or night now,
free from the past drought,
with the worst of both
tempted by desire,
in this sinful dungeon
a cold, ivory sharpness
much older than fire,
will enable fate
to redeem the best
of our damned romance,
and its preordained,
much too vain existence
up the mountain top.
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