The Hunger of the Horizon

The horizon, solemn line and mute,
that embraces sky unto weary ground,
appears quiet, a promise absolute,
a painted border that can not be found.
Yet, beneath the veil of calm repose,
an ancient appetite resides there.

Non of bread nor water, its throat
swallows spaces and endless lights,
every dawn that rises, every word
unspoken, every hope that takes its flights.
It steals the contours from the farthest peak,
sucks color from the sea without rest,
and the day that slowly fades away,
is a slow meal that costs no behest.

It is a silent hunger, with no sound,
a void that feeds upon what can be seen,
the greedy keeper of every blind desire
that cannot blossom green.
Eternally full, eternally empty,
it continues to devour our gaze,
leaving only the remote thought
of an infinite that knows no ways.