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The Moonless Timelessness Of Yalda

The rustles of the rainy dawn frightens the bowing trees
And the stammering lances shear the curtains of somnolence
The sun was ousted from the smeared clouds along with all
The morning songs of the canaries and the gaunt earth regressed
Underneath the mellifluous whispers of the smoky blanket

The devious swaying of the pendulum staggered for symmetry
With its wavering subdued and unnoticed, it found its poise
In a vertical divide it lay asleep, and time was suddenly mine
A riddle hoisted in a queen's repose at the notch of my head
Pulling strings and knotting gnarled quiescence, of suddenly
The time I owned owned me in her nonexistence, and the equinox
Remained elusive to the treacherous moonless and pouring sky

Its enthralling spell beckoned a metallic silence and the absence
Of the thousand points that drifts to collect the quintessence
Of this perforated globe, and with all these reasons and unreasoning
Sank into the pits of evanescence; I came to face a different face of the day -
An endless night devoid of time, wearing a filigree of arctic sighs - a yalda

These masquerading days and empty nights fled through the sly gutters
Of girdling eclipses; a timeline of dark lattices and abysmal musing
I stared into the contumely moue of the gray sky as it obliviously poured
Its frosty mourn in a blighted land of intertwining dusks and dawns
And from this tête-à-tête to the abeyance of light I learned a subtle pain,
A forlorn despondence that will not be mended by a valiant or broken heart
Because this groveling pride of moonlessnes is a fix - a sense of sensibility
Because I have learned the pedagogy of a bony moon's waning,
A starlights oscillating sparks and a two-faced sky's haughty shifting;
But I have never learned to molt with time and this agelessness
Had crippled my veins in a squalid wisdom for beauty and I'm growing tired:
Too tired to wish for the moon to rise from the frothing waves,
Too tired to repair the spigot of heavens that never err to sojourn;
Too tired to rival the inner darkness of this timelessness.

In this godly palm of darkness I lay alone but festooned
By the myriad gregarious transitions of interpolating voices -
Voices hauled from the vile blackness of the oceanic past
Telling me that you are still warm and alive in a transatlantic path
That crosses this land every once in a while in a guise
That shall beckon how you came and left - an arid cold pang
That crawled the dermis of life like an invitation to death;
Saddled in every whim of the reedy air, falling with every weeping drizzle,
A company to the misery lurking in the ubiquitous blindness
That this season of howling wolves and hooting owls,
Of brawling terrors basking in the foliage of cobwebs
Spewed in the intoxicating smoke of this yalda.

poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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