The magma, cold, dreadful,
from the melted consciousness
of the lunatic does not bear
new life.
A little misty
domiciled for ever
its his universe
infinity in ice
infettered.
The heart is
a black hole of sense
and all-light.
Or else death
is that silly
little plaything.
Silence, darkness,
motionlessness.
Prehistoric
volcanoes from the future
float the galaxies.
A message
they do not understand,
they will not live to see:
put to death
buried
distant from
examiners of sense.
To eternity!
To the mist!
To nothing –
you, ridiculous,
players of fear.
Wings gone back to the gods.
(Graham McMaster, “The Bridge”, Zagreb, 2004.)