THE LOST VALLEY

Memory grumbles upon the shadowed rooftop,
wandering through the mist with patent-leather steps,
a gray feather in the wind, a toy of the tides,
a wandering kite, a weary snail.

Memory rests, grows drowsy, nods its head,
dwelling in thought at the edge of the sun,
a frozen, silent witness, a faithful executor
of the inner alembic, of the human crucible.

When it gives voice, lament loses reason,
the chords of a longed-for song burst forth,
and their echoes of stone become a bitter heartbeat.

When it stirs its fire, oblivion sparkles;
metals are melted with tuberoses of passion,
and ashes veil the whole lost valley.