Artichokes like Comets
Columns in the Dying Night
The columns stand, in the dying night,
The sun has gone down, and the weight
Of our past, rests on their shoulders. Still,
They stand, in front of us, infinite.
The columns we once saw, in our youth,
Now older with us, slower with us,
Sadder with us, but still standing
In the dying night.
Once they too were new, they too were young,
Where did our years go, and what took
So long? If the columns were not there,
Where would we all be? Alone?
The details in their structure glide,
Like mother of pearl pieces, and we smile,
One per each year, one per each story. So,
We close our eyes, and listen to their tales.
The columns stand, strong and still alive,
While we find ourselves, older perhaps.
But while the columns are there, we too
Will stand, in the dying night.
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