Moon of the day
Slightly changes and transforms itself.
It blurs, it fades, but it is still there. Beloved.
So precious that it only exists as an image, vertical carpet, father.
So evident, it stays, now not.
Container of machines, container of poetry.
Does it move?
Maybe but, where is it?
Still unknown but so close yet.
Hills of piano notes, mix of glory and perplexity.
It folds on all his faces and then it melts, like a paper river.
Solid sea. Water bricks.
Lucent, translucent, opaque.
It brings people together as prisoners, as marionettes who always refer to it.
Unconscious but fair.
Mirage of a crossing paths and gestures.
It will never stop hiding.
It lasts for ever, but still it grows fast.
Duplicate of its duplicates,
unique in its circumstances.
mirror of its reflection, moon of the day.