The castle by the lake, make my eyes wet,
every time I caught myself thinking with a thought so bare.
Like a bleached camisole unwilling to put on,
it dresses the temples of my musing with a naked hand so cold.
‘Tis a house of cards built in the sandstorm,
falling apart and in love at first sight,
while waving goodbye in the eye of the cyclone.
The castle by the lake,
-was it called Chillon?
Αnd who was the prisoner that Byron carved his name for?-,
stands frozen in time like a souvenir unfold,
shivering fondly under the sun fondle;
behind clouds of redemption full of black snow,
lies heavy like lids red and tired looking forward to fall.
The Harvester's panting on the wallflower's throat,
painting his words of remorse out of breathe with a voice so hoarse:
-Le cavalier sans coeur me rend malade, j'ai peur!
Le danse macabre et l'air du temps sur terre!
Paler than ever you can hear him summon,
see plague had its share many a time on this plateau.
Fair and square in circular motions his sickle tunes on,
to the heartless beat of the heartsick and the lone.
His snoring melts away as I dream on.
23-9-2017
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