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Adam is your ashes

The sword will die like the raceme.
Glass is not more fragile than rock.
Things are their future of dust.
Iron is rust. Voice, echo.
Adam, young father, is your ashes.
The last garden will be the first.
The nightingale and Pindar are voices.
Dawn is the reflection of sundown.
The MycenŠan, the golden mask.
The high wall, the outraged ruin.
Urquiza, the one left by daggers.
The face that sees itself in the mirror
Is not that of yesterday. Night has wasted it.
Delicate time shapes us.

What hap to be the invulnerable water
That flows in Herclitus' parable
Or intricate fire, but now,
In this long neverending day,
I feel durable and destitute.