Friday, August 31, 2012

The game, a poem by Ernesto G.

The children play in the dark
and dance and scream.
Blue and black, and gray,
because gray is the sword.
They know.
Time is theirs only momentarily.
The neighbors have heard them
and complain.
The parents are deaf or pretend to be.
Nothing is sacred anymore, someone says.
Not even this silence that we build
with our own failures and fears.
The children, they know;
they come and go.
They stay.
The neighbors, they know, too.
They drink coffee and wait.
They hide.
The children play in the dark.
Time is theirs now
and they play with it,
throw it up in the air,
kick it away
like a balloon.
The neighbors complain.
They play their own game.
Nothing is sacred anymore.

© Ernesto G.


Anonymous said...

A strange, painfully familiar, touching poem, Ernesto.

Ernesto G. said...

Thank you, Teresa. :)

South Vein said...

There is a song there, as usual, a dark and heavy rock song. Keep on writing like that, my brother. I'll sing your words so people can hear them and listen to them!

Ernesto G. said...

Thank you, Frank. Another song!

Frank Sanchez said...

I read it again this morning, and let me tell you, there is so much more in it that I would compare it with a good red wine: it gets better and richer with time. Where do you get the metaphors from...? Or like our old friend said: Do you even know what a metaphor is...? Hahahahaha!!!!!

Ernesto G. said...

I don't even know. hahahaha