The grand mist surfaced.
Alone is enough in the world of lack;
revamped, reverberated,
mist with the human spleen, with the sunken chest and the tender chin,
with the bulky arms.
No produced action, no mobilisation,
no victory —
just the body
of the sordid vapour.
It’s my only wish, the one escape.
I see through the uprise wind,
borderline static,
moving heavily,
the burden of the grand mist.

Mother, where have I been?
Why was I there in the first place?
Mother, is this my sin —
to witness death in each life’s corner?
Where the grand mist arises
from its sleep,
forgive me; I haven’t found myself
on the deserted street.
Through the eyes, scavenger,
simply dormant
for another minute.

her eyes would resemble
the sea eyes
in blaze
trailing me from the harbour
emerging from all the liquid,
through the chains
braids clinging to land
in force, abundantly.
bribed me, tore sanity off my grip;
illusions i feed myself to never let go
bribed be, and i desired it
all i would ever want
will be to listen the solemn note of your voice.
serena, the harmonious
soul from beyond the terrain
how i would wait for you
to be swept of my feet by you
to be taken by and to your glory,
to your place, alien to my habitat
to be seen, perhaps missed,
to be loved by you
to be the integral part of your light

what I’ve been taught by the wind of my youth,
lying tenderly on the soft ground,
holding meaningful words for each day of the sun,
for each night of the moon.

all words flew through my body,
as if I were the vortex,
for each the meaning of each word.

and then the red wave of the sea came to my feet,
fate’s black leathered glove covering my eyes,
saying:
sleep in this forever muteness,
be enfolded in soft silken fabrics,
dive in my love.

all the bright flags of my youth,
all the mysterious gazes of my youth,
all the dangerous flights of my youth,
all the rains.

My cold Earth, in fear
—
mother of all gods.

And we pray, we beg,
and then we fall

onto the emaciated asphalt.

No work of flouting hands,

Nothing to save, or to be saved

In these circumstances.

My dreams, fragile

As an early March bloom,

Frozen in the escalation of the doomed return

Of far worse times.

And then we reverse the cloak,

in surreptitious fashion eat the leftover air.

There is no more home
—
only the eternal return:

chimney’s smoke,

family’s lovely oak.

Hot-blooded, not frantic
And when you say,
“You are intense, all gas, no brakes,”
I feel safe to be hot-blooded.
For the second moon is discoverable,
And the path to the other side of the Styx is discernible.
If the natural speed of my being made me a traveler,
I would hope that one day
I would look—with sizzling, doomed eyes—at the face of my homeland,
Crying in gaiety for falling asleep
On the lap of the world: “settlement.”

Never was I happy being everywhere,
Nor was I while being somewhere.
All paradoxical,
Ironical—
Story.

you’ve been in this room before.
i know you sat and counted hours
of eternal, overwhelming regret,
and walls by which you were covered—
in fear
of leaving this room,
whose windowpane doesn’t function;
even the window itself
was pierced by a bullet—
wretched, as your spirit
for willingly withholding the power
to open the door,
which you don’t even need to devour
with the glance of perpetual pain,
and the heart you cannot admire.

My thoughts of gentle kindness,
birds in metamorphosis—
fly always above the sea,
as if the sea were the mind.
An individual storage of memories and missions,
to which
mortal challenges
do comply.

Going further,
they would become canaries
in the coal mines.
For each artistic sensuality,
danger is the loftier flight.
Thought, without aiming heavens
rests on the earthly side—
ambitious yet bashful,
pious to its soul’s plan.