Nobility Poem by Elliott Rosenberg

I thought that the purple night concerns the lovers with a brilliant shine,
death come with blood reverence,
and with time the faithful gaze retires on petroglyphs of oblique juncture,
leaving dropsical words to satiate arid forest a permeable saline skin.

I thought that the years would never be able to muffle,
the plumage that folds my melancholic old age,
Not even the felt that aligns my lived truth,
Or the lie that adores the vigil of my reverie,
Beneath the affable crimson twilight.

I am annoyed with the daily wisdom that bites with poverty,
frustrated with the wealth that separates the being from his majesty,
I am Achilles' heel in my urban storm,
they whispered to the staged demagogue oratory.

And when the night crashes into the pale lip foam of the earth,
the gregarious instinct of the raudal river
will sing,
To awaken the sleepy birds in their environment,
whose melody begins to release the spiritual prey anchored to the bangs of oblivion,
I know now how to read the heavenly domain that solitude takes.

Now I can say tenderly that I am a herald of the nobility,
messenger of the universal commune,
cast iron crossbar,
That patrols the heart.