THE IMMORTAL LANTERNS

The Hour of the Dwarf Tailors

Metallic
and rare,
the clock strikes the hour
of the Dwarf Tailors
before the break of dawn.

The Dwarf Tailors descend from their towers
along stony paths.
In the workshops by the shore
they work in silence,
sewing uniforms for the Dwarf Soldiers.
The uniforms are ready.

The ships are waiting
for the Dwarf Soldiers.
The masts sway gently
at dawn, when the green-blue sea boils—
from the heat of magma,
or from the wide-open eye
of the Cyclop.

The dwarf soldiers have left their barracks.
They’ve put on their uniforms,
they’ve boarded quietly.
They asked no questions.
They were simply told
they’re bound for the Land
of
Hypo
Thalamus.

On the BLACK Horse, on the WHITE Horse

By day I ride the BLACK horse,
feel his nervous shudder, his tremor,
see, from the side, the shining
globes of his unbridled eyes
with their flashes of burning sun,
casting the lightning of rage—
uncertain – foolish – vain—
rising from my own viscera.
If only he’d punish me,
throwing me off his sweating back—
but I am one with him, a centaur,
weaving a shirt of blood.
And I long for the rippling mane
of the WHITE horse, streaming
over his gentle eyes,
my stainless one,
dreaming of silver moonlight
melted upon the paths of night.
His soft hooves sinking, silently,
into the pale clouds drifting
over the covers of books
that hold my lost fairy tales.

By night I ride the WHITE horse.
I bend back to touch
his calm croup in a wavering gallop,
in the stagnant marsh-night,
without the rustle of leaves.
And I long for the BLACK horse,
leaping over bramble pyres,
wild, with leafy mane,
racing untamed,
crushing, with iron hooves,
the ripe red apples,
the carpets of blackberries spread wide,
splattering bright, cold waters
in crystal-white bursts,
striking the shallows, clearing the fences,
biting his foamy bit.
If only the WHITE horse would let me slip
from his maternal back—
but see, I am one with him,
a unicorn without aim, deep in the woods,
condemned to wander,
dissolving into the bubbles of night,
until far, into the untouched dawn.

The Immortal Lanterns

Night takes me in her arms,
warm and damp.
In which city? on which of its streets?
I raise my arms and feel myself lifted—
one hand in my father’s, the other in my mother’s—
between them, a swing of their hands.
Fly—up we go!—
from one night to another,
across nights ahead.
we are three immortals
in an immortal city...
Here’s my shadow stretched before me,
long, between their longer shadows.
Why do the shadows shrink, why fade?
why turn, why climb the fence,
and then die?
I raise my arms and feel myself lifted—
one hand in my father’s, the other in my mother’s.
Fly—up we go!—
from one lantern to the next.
My new shadow darts ahead of me,
then
shrinks—fades—turns—climbs—the—fence—
we are three immortals
in an immortal city.
The lanterns come in a line,
The Lanterns—The Immortals—
and they keep coming...

Paul Tumanian is a former physicist and fiction writer from Romania. His work has appeared in Vatra, Euphorion, Convorbiri literare and other literary magazines. He is now exploring poetry alongside prose, plays and essays often drawing on themes of memory, myth, and transformation.