By Thomas Page

This is a series of poems of words that do not directly translate into English. I have tried to capture the essence of the word in a poem.

The highway holds an eerie quality

When the horns belonging to steel horses

Evaporate with the stalled tires in garages far away.

The moon, hidden by its height,

Looks to harken Morpheus in the darkness

Encroaching on the headlights ahead of me.

They call it the witching hour—

A time when the eyes cannot see

Under the moonbeams.

The line dividers merge into a border

That I have to mind lest I merge

Into the lane next to me.

I, having worked into tomorrow, welcome

The time unhuman as I hope to close yesterday

When the dayless moon at its peak.

A morning without light,

An evening with breaching light,

A time that is closed to most.

Not even a crystal-eyed creature dare venture

To utter a sound to break the slumbered veil

That cloaks the nameless time in silence.


Language: Spanish

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