Crossroads
A place where phantoms
linger to whisper
into travelers’ ears and
make them wonder about
their fate.
The hitchhiker drinks:
“Again I summon the hidden gods,
the dark ones of blood.”
Why do you call us?
You know our price. It
never changes. Your
death will grant you life
and free you from the black
destiny. But it is getting late.
Ah, if only I could see you again,
and speak with you, and wander
a little in your company,
and drink the dizzying wine
of your conversations,
I thought.
To save the soul already
in ruins. To find repose.
To plunder the green gold
in the pirate raid and bring
back to camp the ancient glory.
Until the man in the cloak looks
at the poisoned horns and drinks
the crimson victory; the soldier
too, with his trophy,
the pierced helmet; and
the watch-bearer trembling
seeks his path to his
inner goodness.
