The dream is the dream of hexameters, where the sea
Burns with more felicity than all the seas of Europe,
It is the dream of the house in ruins and its most ancient birds:
The words are in my eyes
They are this wood that seems a mirror.
Over me there is a sky like the sky of the Iliad.
Through the storm I hear the voices of magicians,
The voices of the sand of the desert,
The voices that set fire to the sword,
And in the old house burnt by the sunsets
I decipher the enigma of the seven colors
In a room full of shadows.
I listen to the magicians
And words are blue in my eyes.
Merlin sleeps by the tree of fire.
His dream. He keeps alive the flames.
I see the most ancient light in the world
Sliding towards me to see its face.
Slowly the most ancient light dissolves its metaphors
On the sea.
The maiden of colors crosses the garden of the peacocks
And opens all its doors,
Then a tiger enters the dream.
The magicians travel.
Their fables are narrated by the winds
In ancient booklets the color of the sand of the desert.
After they go, everything stays in their view.
Night comes,
And then a man goes mad, or dies for the color blue.

by Fernando Denis

Other poems of FERNANDO DENIS (17)

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