Dream

Who are you, little boy in an old man's body? Why do you haunt me? Every wrinkle on your face fills up, yet you are powerless to utter even a word of greeting, let alone explain your presence in my incorporeality.

Your eyes are blue. Their shine spills like a stormy sea over this conscience. Your beard is white, like clouds playing, thundering at me and flashing. Your lips are cracked, like a land that hasn't tasted a drop of water in years. Your cheeks are inflamed, like those of a hungry traveler who cannot find a shred of mercy in a world of abundance.

You are tall, like a century-old oak yet thin as a sapling just budding. You tremble, waving your hands in all directions, frantically, as if caught in some whirlwind that turns and spins you at its whim until it throws you to your knees, forever. Your cloak, white, drags across the ground, for centuries. Though you scratch with your nails, desperate, trying to cleanse its ends, they are further covered with fertile blackness. Why do you visit my dreams, wander through the labyrinth of my unconsciousness? You will lose yourself, ancient old man, and neither you nor I will utter a word. How can I bring you back to the path of youth covered by forgetfulness? I myself no longer know where I am going, where the end of wandering is. Could you, perhaps, be that delicate line of infinity, the expanse of the universe, incomprehensible to me, the dust of this planet?

Sweat burns and streams from your face, palms are wet, and the head aches. I would scream, but what would that accomplish...

Igor Tintor