October: Damned City of Flowers

Come to my city at nightfall,

when skies are dressed in ash

and gardens, drunk on perfume,

breathe their final agony.

Here autumn kisses every guest

with crushed and withered leaves,

whispering promises gone rotten,

leaving on the tongue

the sweetness of a deadly farewell.

Do you remember that celestial bridge

where lovers sleep,

bound by vows of love until death?

O foolish bridge,

stretched across a river

made of all the autumns ever known,

indifferent to their promises!

Sometimes I hear you

in the rain, the wind, the longing,

but when I turn towards your voice,

I find only your silence.

At last, I dared:

I went in search of you

at Jackdaw Station,

where trains rolled slowly in,

whistling forgotten melodies

that dreamed of arrival,

yet never arrived.

From their doors, the green days

we could never hold

drifted down,

singing a mournful song.

Ever since, I have wandered

through flooded streets,

dreaming of October waters

that swept my footsteps away.

I woke in the blue square,

which lives in agony,

while the entire park slept

beneath a sickly veil of tulle.

There I put my memories up for sale:

a childhood,

a mother,

a caress,

a love,

a lover,

and his silence…

The cruel scent of things

still holding the warmth

of my fears.

Bewildered,

I carried them back to my pillow.

Who would buy such things?

I summoned my past:

black,

white,

clean,

filthy—

perhaps perfect.

And I cannot tell

when I grew

a hundred winters old.

A floral curse is upon me!

Accursed October city,

city of magnificent ruins:

I still search your streets

for someone willing to sell

a little sanity,

and find only dead flowers.

Yet all of them,

all of them,

all of them

still hold your perfume.