serenade

Guitars cry
in the wilderness of night.
They are like ailing
hearts.

The whole town
sleeps in agony…
The moon is a skull
watching over us.

All the sky is laced
with silvery light…
A voice cries out
for Jesus.

The dead stillness
of the moonlight spreads low…
And in the moonlight
at each door a soul expires.

The old people pass by trembling…
Go in peace,
you evangelists
of the Here-Lies!

All the sad city
is a cemetery….
There is a murmur of nostalgia
and mystery.

The cloud holds back
the tears it has in itself….
Beyond, weeps the song
of the river.

From south to north,
like a secret,
passes a draught of misfortune:
it is the voice of fear…

In the peace of the night
there is the celestial
silence of
a funeral urn.

Through the infinite grief
that is in everything
I hear the rolling of the water,
serene and sad.

Guitars cry
in the wilderness of night.
They are like ailing
hearts.

And through the middle of the town
runs the river,
carrying the memory
of someone who is dying…

Alphonsus de Guimaraens

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