In the sky’s glass tank,
my reflection floats, waiting
for the fissure to open
and let everything pour into nothing.
The flasks — small moons —
stand aligned along the horizon’s ledge,
each guarding a handful
of sand stolen from the last shore.
In the universe’s secret chemistry,
I learned to distill a thick silence.
Ah, what a useless science.
I need the wind to find me.
But today, the wind is unbearably cold.
Is this the cosmic sign
that I’ve become
a careless supernova, suspended,
awaiting the death of the universe?
And who would I call to my rescue?
The trunk where the birds sleep?
The stones, precious and unprecious alike?
That face shaped by hundreds of constellations,
still worshipped by humans, gods, and others?
My ethereal friends live in houses of glass,
they could never bear to see me break.
Work is a port in Aldebaran that never existed.
Nothing works. Nothing.
It rains heavily in Aldebaran, sweeping away
the droplets of milk from the Milky Way,
sweeping away the liters of tears
that manifest an ocean
vast in the distant paintings of unnamed galaxies.
The words swim like parasitic worms
feeding on the light.
Better to hasten the undeniable arrival of night.
And so go one, two, three moons,
and the stars go out, one by one,
until my skin dissolves
into atoms, quarks, and whatever lies beyond.
In a leap, seven million years have passed,
and the desert still gnaws the bones
left behind by vultures, and the rains
still wash me from within, and the screams
still drown in the crystalline cleft of the echo
of vegetal existences,
frail and stubborn.
And I manifest. And then I return
everything to the earth and crown it,
and plant one last seed,
fragile, stubbornness,
and wait to see it grow
once again.
– Abstract painting “Vibrations of universe,The Shining Lonely star” by Ararat Petrossian-diptic