The Crossing

You belong to those who cross the river—
to ravines filled with the fluids
of lies and of violence.

In the years when the innocent vanish,
they sing lullabies about you,
while shadows devour the murals
on the mountain walls.

What the river divides
is a sob split open
by the axe of judgment.

A fierce wind moves through your wrinkles,
through the seams of your silver hair,
turning the contortion of pain
into a polite smile.

With the last glimmer
at the corner of the eye—crossing—
carrying the weight of sorrow and joy,
locking the clasp of morality shut.

Together with the dim traces,
truth shakes itself off
on insignificant rocks.

And that river,
each time it flows, forgets a name.

That river, dry now,
holds only a single rope to cross.
Yet in dreams still flows toward the sea,
past inscriptions of cries,
prayers,
and silence.

At the crossing,
all the gods begin to dance.