The Abbey ruins dropped back
the screams of cracked stained glass windows
under the finger flames of rage and hate.
The prays of the stones licking wisdom,
the Library books crying words from their eternal absence,
the claustre falling down while its blood paints the lips of the forgotten blessed evening of darkness.
Dormitories that buzz the turmoil breeze of ashes,
the spirit, fleeing the ancestors, captured in the empty flakes of fume,
the tower of the burning time,
the wood dissapearing through out the black hole of a dying moon,
the horryfied monks belling the melting madness,
the scenery of lost,
a hopeless choir symphony floating on the tide of its ghosts.
There are memories that flourish among the cemetery corpses,
that flickr the whispering petals of the past
and kidnap the imagination eyes
in a single tickle of the senses,
into the void of a dismissed sigh.
