Not used to eternity

It was the word go in the ears, a pulsating
Drum, with variable sounds and thoughts,
Inability to hear one's own words at volume .
A touch of vertigo , as J.L.Borges would say
When you confront the eternity of cloisters.
This vertigo is one's head when turns to side
On pillow's heights, while  in sleep's depths.

Mere drum beats, from holes of dark caves,
An old man becoming stone deaf  in  an ear
That hangs its boots, or mind turns upwards?
Or standing on tenth floor balcony on level
With the swirling eagle you look down below
And become dazed by  a dizzying eternity
 As blood  flows up against endless gravity?
A touch of vertigo , as J.L.Borges would say
When  not used to a breath-taking eternity.

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