The lovers are in a continuous movement of dialogue.
The time is then, (stolen), the language is mesmerizing.
They have taken to the village, behind the wall of lamentations,
Under the secret stone archway, against the garden fence.
The scenes play out in excruciating sequence.
We hear the quick murmurs, a rising fever in a voice.
The quivers of touch we feel,
The fading footsteps.
The sun is falling.
The sword stabs at our memory, pricking our ears,
We overhear the birds singing twilight songs into the hourglass,
Divine and mortal, our lover the unmoved mover.
“the closer phenomena come to the focal point of Inversion, the
more they tend to collide with one another…” (Cirlot)
the tragedy of beauty is autumn.