They breath through me

An everlasting, inextinguishable fire lies at the very roots of an old fig tree in India.

Encircled by a small altar, it has not stopped burning for centuries.

Hundreds of anonymous devotees journey there daily, with gifts, offering their soul to the fire.

Macabre dances of ecstatic women in pain.

They scream.

They pray.

“Release us from sorrow.”

And the fire feeds.

Hidden.

Countless coconut shells covering the embers.

The ajar eye of a sleeping dragon.

A crack of magma in the deep ocean.

All covered in slag.

A trusted guardian keeping it alive, making sure no one trespasses the gate.

He utters no words.

He merely observes.

A mist rises, painting the leaves grey.

It grows thicker, engulfing the tree.

A dream of haze.

You are in a crystal ball.

The same fumes irradiating the air of the temple are forever in my lungs

and exhale now through me.

It pulsates from deep below.

The forge.

A metronome of unseen, impending death.

A mechanical smith, a craftsman that feels no fatigue.

An insane cook who endlessly digs the ground.

A clock made of soil.

For it goes deeper,

down to the pit where only snakes dare to enter.

Never seen, still burning.

The heart of a deceased saint pulsates in me.

I feel it when I light my cigarette up.

A crackling.

I feel it when I breathe my smoke out.

Coughing.

And I hear them.

A thousand screams again.

Freed by a blow.

A fog rises anew, fast dissolving in the dark of the universe.

I feel it when, alone at night, endless voices keep me awake.

Obsessions.

A theatre of my own, a parade of actors that died before making it to the stage.

Voices, voices, endless voices.

Obsessions; the forgotten tongue of the dead.

But they were, all of them, deceived.

For no prayer was ever answered.

For the saint, my father, is not dead.

Nor is he living.

What’s left of him is a skeleton absorbed in endless meditation.

A smiling skeleton with a golden cup next to him.

Deep down among the other dead.

Laughing, pondering.

A serious gaze.

Look into the skull’s orbit.

What do you see?

How deep is it?

Praise death.

Emulate death.

Entomb yourself and you shall be free.

Defeat death itself.

Be victorious.

Kill yourself.

But his silver, sacred plate — mine.

Eat anything from it and be forever blessed.

A relic.

His harmonium, stolen.

Safe in one of my rooms.

Touch one key and the world’s strings still will tremble.

Dare to play his litany and the fabric of reality will shatter.

You have been cursed.

I was attacked by a pack of dogs.

They would have eaten me alive.

The guardian of the threshold jumped in,

swinging a powerful cane,

scaring the dogs away.

Said he:

“This magical staff is now yours.

Make good use of it

and don’t let dogs near you ever again.”

I kept it as long as I could,

then it was lost.

I absorbed it,

so I can stand still

until the day I’ll no longer walk.

In the labyrinth I crossed ways with a man.

Once in Venice, once in the temple.

The first saluted me and we shared torment for a brief instant.

Our eyes met and saw what was real.

For we were both forever lost.

And they both turned their head, longing for the other.

In some other corridor,

a powerful voice — an elect singer from the ancient lineage of bards —

saw my naked body.

Said he:

“Do not forget your body.

Your body belongs here.

Look at it.

You are this as well.”

I had never felt this strong.