Moon at Half Past Noon

An old roof falls. What remains is not sky,

but a debt to the void. A cold, new way of breathing.

Each breath now is a season of frost. A fresh pain germinates.

The heart was not a home, but a tenement. It has no historical value.

No one asks why it fell. Just the slow rain on dust.

And from the mud, a new pain sprouts.

What helplessness is this, that a man must be the surgeon

of his own ghost, with no anesthetic but the moon?

The incision weeps. A new pain blossoms.

The bricks of memory are poor companions.

They only speak of walls that are no longer there.

Every horizon is a turned back. Every face, a closed door.

In the silence, a new pain grows.

We were the witnesses appointed: the whole city, a yellowed photograph.

Stars are now just broken glass at our feet. The sky, a film of ash.

From this altitude of loss, a new pain ascends.

This is the covenant of the rootless: every boundary is a scar.

A man, hollowed out among his own kind. Expected to stand

as if his spine were not kindling. And from that posture,

a new pain is born.