IN THE CAGES OF THE LUNAR ORBITS

Beneath the pressure of our feet lie more and more sacrificial heads, once known to us as gods, then when they have become surplus, soul-wrecks, we have taken them and trampled them underfoot, like Destiny. A flock of grey-coloured pigeons coo over us, till in a careless, unfriendly moment they drop a guano on our unsuspecting heads. The handful of survivors have set off, but only on the ground of reality.

They serve up on TV the many trivial celebrity stories as a benign, promising pretext, while deliberately trivialising the most necessary things; ant-worms from below now carry the honest lie like a fake delivered on an assembly line, while crumpled, liver-spotted hands caress their tinkling Judas pills.

Time, it is true, is still moaning, but conscious sorrow has for some time built itself a nest in broken-winged rib-cages; instincts and thoughts weave moon-tracks around themselves, for they know not how to free themselves from their selfish, petty fetters with firm conviction. As if one by one, the rapidly collapsing house of cards, the cobblestones posing as massive, are falling out of our lives.Our fingernails dig into flesh, for the points of contact have long since ceased; clinging ever more spasmodically is hardly possible. The soul is already invaded.

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