The air at noon comes bearing sparks
Stiff with congealed fire
The cicadas alone haven't fainted
Every blade of grass
Retreats into itself.
An irate torrid wind
Rolls down the wrinkles
Of the terraced land of Judea,
Sweeps the scorched leaves.
And thus, the world stands
Melted onto its axis.
And only at sunset
A deep exhale of the sea
Combats the breath of the desert
Head on, venting its longing,
Yawning with desire,
And the winter is conceived
Just as the gates of the inferno
Swing open on the Solstice.
It ripens inside the pomegranates,
It bloats the acacia seeds,
Ready to rattle in December.
It comes as a mere hint
Of a smell. A memory.
A bass buzz of Muladhara
Rising from the first drop
Of evaporated autumn.
Building up the torrent
To conceive the summer.
