Greetings, Steemians!
This poetry is inspired by the Photo which, for me, reveals: emptiness, isolation, loneliness.
The existential vacuum is a subject that has many layers, one on top of the other. Crusts are removed and never healed. Rather, new ways of distracting it appear, making it deeper. We see how we are more and more alone with so much company, how we create more deaf personal spaces. We become more and more anonymous... more layers, more masks. Yes we see, yes we believe, yes we share or at least we try, but, every day there is more emptiness. There is something of this in the poem I present to you today, which, in turn, I relate to the quote I present below. As always, waiting for your gentle gaze and for you to like it.

If the doors of perception were purified, everything would seem to men, as it really is: infinite, because man has closed himself until he sees all things through the narrow cracks in his cave.

William Blake

The loneliness of the wind alone
is a lament inside a grotto.
Howling wind,
echoic wind,
mighty wind
penetrating
through any slit.
Why?
Hidden, is it strengthened?
You can see the face,
but inside?
Who knows what's inside?
Only the wind.
Minds are closer,
the farther the bodies are,
the closer the noises are,
farther away, silence:
A weak light,
is filtered by the wind.
But, inside,
there is nothing but the scream infinite.
The void doubles it.
It is the naked silence
of form,
without illusion of clothes.
Only shadows.
We are dressing in wind,
deaf and silent.
Each in his own cave,
moving away from the world,
shouting inside.
Below, an icy shadow,
dim light on the ceiling.
Fragments of fused days,
ghostly darkness
sustains the walls of reason.
Solitude is induced
to do the rest.
But, the night is woven at dawn,
for a new awakening.

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Si las puertas de la percepción se purificaran, todo parecería a los hombres, como realmente es: infinito, porque el hombre se ha cerrado hasta que ve todas las cosas a través de las estrechas rendijas de su cueva.

William Blake

La noche se teje en el alba

La soledad del viento sólo
es un lamento dentro de una gruta.
Viento aullador,
viento ecoico,
viento abrumador
que penetra
por cualquier rendija.
Por qué?
¿Oculto se hace fuerte?
Se ve la cara,
¿pero, adentro?
¿Quién sabe lo que hay dentro?
Sólo el viento.
Las mentes están más cerca,
más lejos están los cuerpos,
más cerca están los ruidos,
más lejos, el silencio:
Una débil luz
se filtra con el viento.
Pero, en el interior,
no hay nada más que el grito infinito.
El vacío lo dobla.
Es el silencio desnudo
de forma,
sin ilusión
de ropa, sólo sombras.
Nos estamos vistiendo de viento,
sordo y silencioso.
Cada uno en su cueva,
alejándose del mundo,
gritando para dentro.
Abajo, una sombra helada,
luz tenue en el techo.
Fragmentos de días fundidos,
oscuridad fantasmal
sostiene las paredes de la razón.
La soledad es inducida
para hacer el resto.
Pero, la noche se teje en el alba,
para un nuevo despertar.

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Written by Zeleira Cordero (@zeleiracordero).

08/10/18

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Photo by Jim Strasma on Unsplash
Thank you-Pixabay

For accompanying me, reading me and always being there ...

Posted from my blog with https://wordpress.org/plugins/steempress/SteemPress: http://zeleiracordero.vornix.blog/2018/10/08/the-night-is-woven-at-dawn-la-noche-se-teje-en-el-alba-poetry/