nutcracker 2

In the dolls’ house madonna wears her golden hair in long plaits. She had never seen a rainbow. The clouds are farther than the sun, the nutcracker is alive, snow white stays white in her crystal coffin, all dolls come to life when the big key is turned in the old grandfather clock.
In the valley of tears madonna has a round belly. She hardly sustains the full moon on the sky. Everybody touches her with the tip of their fingers, they all crave for green figs, it rains bitter cherry tears from above. People suffer to raise her up over the umbrella trees in the dry savannah. Death hops around like a kangaroo carrying the whole planet in its pocket. It walks like a canephora on the road of sacrifice, the sun on its head. Madonna doesn’t know yet which one is heavier: the earth, the sun or the moon inside her body.
Madonna is an elder woman. She tells her stories near the fireplace in the room with all her loved ones painted on the walls, with their auras shining like embers. Her words are the living blood flowing from the spring source with a blackened cross over it. The word of god never freezes in the language of every child, inherited from father to son. Only the dead ones are silent and shared to each other, without any privilege, either hell or heaven. The priest draws the line of the survey at the last eucharist.
On madonna’s front the ointment is cold. Another doll has come to life.

Categories: My Poems in 2014 | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

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