A transparent cat stares at a distant desert with no one there.
A tree burns and screams.
Mad death devours a green fruit.
Stone *******. Stone with *******.
Wreckage of sea and sky—
and the moon did not come.
Cracked earth in the chest-hollow of a beast.
****** footprints everywhere.
Hands grinding the water.
Wine falls as rain,
a flower dissolves in the ash of the day.
Slow surface—
and a bird appears, barely distinguishable.
At last, a stroke that emerged by mistake.

What remains of you is flower-smoke,
A white dream of cold lava and sorrow.

Ashes of your days—
a sleep of birds
in the grey murmur of rain.

What remains is the weary strength of struggle,
Night’s sweat in the scent of the house,
The moan of lovers in love’s first bloom.

And what remains—
the dead script with which I devour you,
and the silence with which I adore you.

Birds loosen themselves from the writing of my fingers,
They cross my cold, alcohol-shadow
With bodiless flights,
Seizing my skin, suddenly set aflame.

Golden garden – portals of mist.
The trees upright in beautiful drowsiness.
Pale moon, boundless and restless, stirs the soul...
Naked horse.

THEN the morning was a long way to reach you, I wrote with ashes the wounds in music as if god MOVED in the grass.

You are the sun in the sea wind
the bonze soul of spring
you are the law that moves my blood

Do not give us the gift of consciousness,
do not save us with morality.

Offer us, instead, freedom —
pure and authentic.
A virtuous night to love,
to make of another body the island that cuts through the ocean,
the new dwelling place of our soul.

Do not offer us treatises,
nor more phrases for convention.

I will cast a kiss that will make the world fertile,
and like a rope, I will pull you —
you who are beside me,
and you who are far from me.

For I must love my neighbor with intensity,
and love even more the one beyond,
even if they are a stranger to me.