It's Snowing (the Inexistents)

For Angelopoulos

It's snowing it's snowing it's snowing
The voices of inexistents are frozen still
Frozen voices into the open we go
Statues strobed before a historical shore
Lines which spin and pivot parapraxis

On top of this we feel the discovery
Waves in a calm we warmly clasp
The bottom on top of this hands grasp
Frozen frames of an animal dying
From the people just tell me this

Where's the surface of motion's lapse
The masks put on by aesthetic facts
Inexistents undying of the past
Dance on the grave of this nonsense
Blood of distant fathers the graceful clutch

It's snowing it's snowing it's snowing
Frozen still the voices are of inexistents
Into the stillness we go frozen voices
Where they take hold they take hold
As the shudder to a mistless breath.